


Butter Wouldn’t Melt in His Mouth

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aristocrat Bucky Barnes, Arranged Marriage, Courtship, Etiquette, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Angst, Misbehaving Livestock, Peasant Farmer Steve Rogers, Pining, Porn With Plot, Protective Bucky, SMUT SMUTTY SMUTTERNESS, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Tonight We’re Gonna Party Like it’s 1839, otpprompt, regency au, runaway groom, the author is a horrible person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:27:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 63,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23606332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Summary: James wanted what his parents had, but he wanted to do it in his own time, on his own effort. An arranged marriage sounded less than ideal, no matter what the possible benefits.Obviously, his groom had similar opinions on the subject.“Where’s Steven?” The piano music signaling his entry stopped when the assembled guests saw that the second groom wasn’t walking down the white brocade runner.James’ stomach dropped into his shoes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson
Comments: 98
Kudos: 133
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	1. Not For All the Gold in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is my auction prize for the Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 charity auction. My winner enjoys arranged marriage/marriage of convenience stories as much as I do, and particularly when Stucky is at its center. What could be more fun than that for me to write?

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183133495@N02/49888714071/in/dateposted-public/)

Taken from the Tumblr otpprompt:

Imagine your OTP has never met, but they find out that they are in an arranged marriage to each other. Person A (Steve) is outraged at the prospect of marrying someone they’ve never even met, but Person B has always been lonely (Bucky) and is looking forward to having a spouse, no matter whom it is. Person A runs away from home before the wedding, where they would have met each other for the first time, so B decides to track them down and court them without giving away that they were the person Person A left at the altar.

“Goodness, I could dig for gold in your ears,” Sarah muttered as she drilled the wet wash rag into her son’s ear with the tip of her finger. “How on earth did you get so filthy, Steven?”

“I’m not even that dirty,” he argued as he poked at the lump of his mother’s handmade lye soap resting on the edge of the bathtub. 

“Young man, this water is absolutely _gray_. You looked like you were rolling around in the pigpen this afternoon when I found you.”

“I was just playing with Sam down in the creek. That’s just like taking a bath.”

Sarah let out an exasperated breath as she continued to scrub her son clean, sluicing the warm water down his back, scrubbing between his jutting scapula. Steven had a slight kyphosis that the town doctor might correct in time with adjustments and postural exercises, he’d told her, but Sarah held out little hope. 

Certainly, her son had proven her wrong before, surviving all of the previous times that the odds were stacked against him. Rheumatic fever, asthma, allergies to just about _everything_ now that they were living out in the country, even though the doctor cheerfully assured her that the fresh air was the best thing for his fragile lungs. Diphtheria nearly killed him. Joseph, before he died, assured her “Our son is a tough little mite. Scrappier than anyone would guess to look at him.” There was such pride in his voice as he stroked his son’s cap of towhead waves, still damp from fever. Joseph loved their only child so much, and Sarah regretted that he would never see him grow into a man like him.

“The water might look clean, darling, but it doesn’t help if you jump through every puddle and go running through the tall grass and climb through every bush and hedge and go up every tree on your way home, does it?”

She poked him under his armpit, making him giggle, and she tickled him again just to enjoy the tinkling sound. She handed him a small, wooden toy boat and let him float it on the water’s surface. Sprigs of lavender also floated on the water, an aid to bedtime. The sun crept down in the sky an hour prior, and they were chatting by lantern light.

“Mama?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“When is Papa coming back?”

Her smile faltered as she cleaned under his fingernails, tsking over a little bruise on his left ring finger knuckle. “He’s not coming back, sweetheart. We talked about this. Remember when the vicar came to visit last spring?”

Solemn blue eyes looked up at her, then flitted away. His rosebud mouth grew tight. Sad.

“He’s in heaven with the angels, and he’s watching over us, Steven. And he’s so proud of you.”

“I want Papa back,” he told her in a small voice.

“So do I. But he sees you. And he loves you. When you’re playing with Samuel, he sees how fast you run and how high up into the trees that you climb. He saw you catch that big, warty toad.”

That made him smile, and she gave his nose a fond tweak. “He loves you.”

“I see him when I sleep, sometimes,” he admitted.

“In your dreams?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Those must be very nice dreams.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Let me wash your hair.”

He whined a little, but Sarah tutted at him and scrubbed his hair with more of the lye soap and shielded his eyes when he tipped his head forward so she could rinse it using the small china pitcher.

Six was too young to become fatherless.

“What else do you dream about, sweetheart?”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders and made a thoughtful noise. “Monsters, sometimes. They chase me. They push me down and call me a blight.”

That drew Sarah up tall where she knelt. “A _blight_??? Where on earth did you hear that awful word?”

Her son froze, and he stared down at his boat, exhaling heavily through his nose. “At school.”

“From the children?”

“Gilmore,” Steven admitted. “His papa told him that’s what I was.”

Sarah gently took his chin and tilted it up, making him look at her. She gave him a soft smile. “Steven. It’s all right to tell me if someone is treating you poorly.”

He tried to look away, but she made him face her again. “I won’t be angry at _you_ ,” she promised. “I just don’t want my sweet boy to be upset, or for anyone to ever, ever hurt you, darling.”

She kissed his sweet little cheek. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I know that, Mama.”

“Good. That Gilmore fellow sounds like he has all the charm of that toad that you caught and threw back.”

Steven made a face, then nodded enthusiastically.

 _His father is a toad, as well,_ Sarah decided privately. The nerve of that blasted man, voicing an opinion like that in front of a child. Sarah had a mind to give him a much needed piece of it the next time he stopped by the pharmacy. The man acted like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, for heaven’s sake… overbearing, pompous buffoon. _If I wasn’t raised as a lady, I would spit in his tonic. That would fix him._

Joseph Rogers was a large, hearty man with a bold disposition and stubborn opinions who brooked no nonsense from those he had dealings with, but Sarah knew him to be a soft touch behind closed doors. It was Sarah Rogers herself who owned razor-sharp wit and a lack of patience for wagging tongues. And she had no mercy to spare for anyone who approached her only son with anything but respect. Hazel Frost suggested that Sarah wasn’t feeding Steven properly, or that he simply had “bad humors” and that was why he was such a sickly child and “so far behind.” Sarah’s folded lace fan found itself upside the back of Hazel’s bonnet, knocking it askew.

“Oh, dear. Dearest Hazel. My apologies, dear. There was a wasp that landed upon your lovely bonnet. And it is lovely, did you get that in Paris?”

“Er. No. I happened upon it in the millinery over in Kent.”

“Fetching. It’s _fetching._ ”

Sarah’s smile was benign; her voice dripped with ice and venom.

Hazel backed away and reached for her daughters, Cordelia and Adrienne; the older of the two held her baby, Emma, a plump little thing overswaddled in ruffles and ribbons. “Come along, girls. Tell Mrs. Rogers good day.”

“Good day, ma’am.” As they walked away, Sarah heard Adrienne insist in shrill tones, “Mama, there was no wasp…”

Gilmore. If memory served Sarah correctly, was an unpleasant child. Snide. Churlish. Always sniggering behind his hand with the other young lads and teasing anyone whom he saw as weak, or lacking. Sarah wouldn’t tolerate anyone teasing her son or repeating their parents’ bad judgment for his edification.

“Let’s get you all settled in.” Sarah bundled Steven up, and he padded back to his room, skin rosy and glowing from the bath and hair slick as a seal’s. Sarah dried him off and dressed him in a heavy flannel nightgown. She then took a hot brick from the fireplace, holding it with the long, metal tongs, and she ran it over the cool bedsheets to warm them before he climbed in. He smiled up at her in contentment. Sarah kissed him and smoothed back his hair, but as she rose to extinguish the lantern and leave, he stopped her.

“Mama, can I have a story?” His voice was plaintive, and he gave her that look that she could never deny, blast it. Sarah was exhausted and had an early day in the morning, but…

“Which one would you like, dear?”

Steve’s eyes lit up, and he hopped right up out of bed and ran to the book shelf. He pulled down the heavy, beautifully embossed, leatherbound edition of _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ and scrambled back into bed just as quickly, prying the book open to the page he’d finally dog-eared after asking his mother to read it so often. He handed her the open book, bouncing eagerly until she sat down on the edge of the bed.

Sarah finally leaned up against the wall, stretching out her legs, and Steven huddled against her, smiling down at the ink illustration of a girl standing next to a pile of coins.

“Mother Hulda,” Sarah pronounced with a flourish. “You seem to love this one so.”

“It’s my favorite, Mama, especially the part with the tar!” he chortled.

Sarah feigned astonishment. “You don’t like the part where the good little sister goes home with all of the gold as her reward for her hard work and kindness?”

“Uh-uh,” he asserted. “I like the gold part, but the other girl was mean. I bet she looked funny walking home all covered in tar. She wouldn’t be lazy and so mean after that.”

That reasoning was fair, and Sarah wasn’t going to expound on the ruinous effect of pitch and how hard it was to remove it from skin, or hair, or how it virtually destroyed fabric.

“We never like it when people are mean,” Sarah offered instead.

“Uh-uh. Can we read it, now?”

Clearly, her son was in a mood to see justice served in a hail of tar and public shame. _So be it._ “Once, a widow had two daughters; one was pretty and industrious. The other was ugly and lazy.”

Steve smiled whenever she reached his favorite parts, giggling whenever Sarah read Mother Hulda’s lines in a querulous, crackling voice.

These were her favorite moments with her son, in their lonely, crumbling little cottage. Sarah wouldn’t trade them for all the gold in the world.


	2. Just Out of Grasp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new boy was taller than Steve (hardly surprising), wore much finer clothing than anyone else’s (except Emma, perhaps), and his expression was shrewd. Wary.
> 
> Sam asked the question before it could leave Steve’s tongue. “Do you think he’ll play with us?”
> 
> Steve gestured uncertainly, toying with his quill. He leaned in close and admitted on a loud whisper, “I don’t know, Sam.” Then, “I just hope he’s not _mean._ ”
> 
> Author’s Note: More exposition and back story. Sorry for the initial bit of kidfic, I can never help myself, especially when it comes to Stucky. Picturing miniature Steve just gives me warm fuzzies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More exposition and back story. Sorry for the initial bit of kidfic, I can never help myself, especially when it comes to Stucky. Picturing miniature Steve just gives me warm fuzzies.

Steve and Samuel lingered outside on the mildly chilly, hazy morning, drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick.

“Don’t kneel down in that, Steve,” Sam chided, elbowing his bosom friend sharply. “You’ll get dirty.”

“No, I won’t,” he argued back.

“Will, too. Don’t get in trouble with your mama. My mama would have my hide if I came back with mud on my trousers.”

“It’s fine,” Steve lied, because Sarah had certainly made equally dire warnings about the state of his clothes and the effort it took to keep his clean. Now that he was older, she made him help hang the washing outside and scrub the badly soiled things on the washing board. His own smaller, tender knuckles reddened after only washing a few things, and Steve appreciated his mother’s efforts more, but perhaps not so much as to take up cleaner, quieter pursuits. It was still too much fun going out into the muck with Sam and the rest of their tightly knit circle. Sam had appearances to keep up, since his father was the local parish’s vicar, but he was drawn to Steve and his mischief like a moth to the brightest flame. The two of them were thick as thieves. Sarah was a frequent visitor to Darlene Wilson’s front parlor before Joseph passed away, and just as often ever since. Steve and Sam often had free run of her kitchen, since her housekeeper indulged their curiosity and let them help her create the family’s meals and baked goods, watching with a keen eye as they rolled out the dough with small hands.

Sarah and Steve enjoyed a simple existence, even though it was lonelier for the lack of a father, a husband. They both missed his laughter and stories, his bold presence and his warmth. No matter how quietly Steven would creep into his study just to watch him as he read the post or filled and lit pipe, his father would hear him and slowly turn, cocking his head. Sunlight danced in the burnished gold strands of his beard where it shone inside through the gap in the curtains.

“Is that my favorite little spy?” he would inquire. Steve would fail to suppress his giggles behind his hand every time. “Do I hear a spy sneaking up on me inside my home? Where, oh where could he - AHA!” And Joseph would snatch aside the curtains, or the cushions or the ottoman, ousting his son from his hiding place, and he would pounce on him to wrestle with him, tickling him breathless. Sarah would find them both tousled and rosy-cheeked, nagging them not to knock over her fine vase or upset the potted plants. But the mayhem was comforting and familiar; she missed the laughter and her husband’s antics. Her son was quieter and didn’t smile anywhere near as often since, even as his memories of his father’s death, and the grim details, grew dimmer with time.

Steve heeded Sam’s advice this time, stooping down and sparing the knees of his trousers for now.

“That’s good,” Sam remarked as Steve drew the flower from memory.

“It’s one of Mama’s lilies,” he informed Sam. “It’s a tiger lily.” He drew out the small spots, stabbing the end of the stick in the dirt to add detail. “She likes the orange ones the best.”

“My mama loves daffodils,” Sam informed him easily. “Yellow is her favorite.” Steve didn’t doubt it; Mrs. Wilson always showed up to services on the Sabbath in pale yellow frocks and matching ribbons tied to her bonnets. “She says it’s a happy color.”

Steve thought about it for a moment. A vision of his mother danced through his memory. Of Sarah and Joseph at a picnic. His father tucked a white daisy with a yellow center behind his mother’s ear, making her laugh as she cut slices of cake for them. Dandelions burst stubbornly through the grass, blowing in the breeze. She wiped Steve’s mouth with a creamy yellow cloth napkin. Joseph helped him lift a kite into the air, finally catching a strong enough breeze that sent it sailing up into the sky; Sarah embroidered the lightweight silk with a cheerful yellow star.

“I think it is, too,” he agreed quietly.

Steve continued to sketch in the dirt. Sam, growing bored, moved on to play with Scott, Gabriel, and James, who informed them on his first day of school that he preferred his middle name of Logan. The boys dug into Logan’s small pouch made of velvet rags and fished out a handful of the tiny, tin toy soldiers and lined them up, reenacting the battle at Waterloo. Steve continued to sketch by himself, moving on from the stick and soil to a small journal tucked into his pocket. He scratched out a rough drawing of a bird that pecked around in the gravel for bugs, appreciating its bright blue feathers and spiky crest. He sat down on an abandoned, upended tin pail that rested against the wall of the schoolhouse, chewing on the corner of his lip as he worked. 

A trio of little girls approached him, hovering over him and casting a shadow over his page. “What’re you doing?” Ororo demanded to know.

“M’drawing,” he mumbled as he tried to look past them, but the bird started to hop off. “You’re getting in the way.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” Sharon chided, but she stepped aside, enabling his view. Emma failed to take the hint and she hunkered down, despite that the squatting like that in her dress wasn’t ladylike in the least. She poked at the page.

“That’s not bad,” she informed him. “I bet my big brother Chris can draw better.”

“Only because he’s _big_ ,” Ororo pointed out. “Steven can draw.” Steve didn’t mind Ororo, since the town gossips occasionally had a field day when they spoke about her family, too, and the unfortunate circumstances that befell them. She became the ward to Charles Xavier, the eccentric professor that lived on the edge of town with his longtime companion, Erik Lensherr, after her parents perished in a carriage accident when she was four. She had unusual, yet striking looks; she was darker skinned like Sam, but her eyes were a bright, crystal blue instead of Sam’s deep, warm brown, and her hair was a stunning, platinum white. Gilbert’s father didn’t call her a blight, at least, but he did suggest that she was a changeling, and likely cursed. Steve and Sam decided they would be her friend out of mere spite.

“What else can you draw?” Sharon asked as she leaned over him, and the ends of her long, sandy curls dusted his shoulder. Steve fanned them off, but he politely turned the pages of his journal to show her. She “oohed” in delight at the pictures of animals, including a small, spotted fawn that was surprisingly detailed. “She’s darling,” she gushed.

“I like that one, too, but I still think Chris could draw it better.”

“Maybe you should tell him to draw it, then,” Ororo suggested. She walked away, pleased to have had the last word. Emma and Ororo could be bosom friends or bitter enemies, from one moment to the next, fast enough to make one’s head spin. Emma made a disgruntled noise and trotted after her, but before she could take umbrage, the teacher rang the bell, and the children raised a chorus of disappointed cries and lined up to go inside. Sharon lingered near Steve, until Sam jostled around her and collected him, tugging his best friend away.

“She has cooties,” Sam reminded her.

“I know that,” Steve murmured, and his cheeks warmed with embarrassment. He always felt self conscious whenever other children surrounded him like that, like he was more vulnerable; sometimes, the monsters in his dreams also wore bows in their hair. They marched inside, and the boys hung their jackets and hats on the coat racks and hooks along the back walls before filing into their seats. 

“Take out your arithmetic primers, please,” Mrs. Walters asked, and there was a shuffling around the room and the slap of books hitting the desks as they complied. Steven didn’t mind numbers, and Sam had a real gift for them, but he enjoyed reading so far, and he received high marks for his penmanship, writing out rows of neat, copperplate script with no trouble.

They recited addition equations in unison as Mrs. Walters guided her pointed over the ones scrawled in chalk on the board. She began the lesson by giving examples.

“Who wants to tell me how many apples I would have if I brought two of them in my lunch, and if Emma gave me two more?”

Naturally, Emma raised her hand, straining over the chance to answer it before anyone else. Mrs. Walters complied, tipping the pointer in her direction.

“Four,” she called out.

“Correct. Now, if I was a farmer, and if I started out with three nice apple trees, and if I decided to go out and plant three more, how many would I have?” Emma raised her hand again, but this time, she gave Scott a turn.

“Seven?” he asked, only mildly certain. She nodded and smiled.

“Very good, dear.”

She carried out the rest of the lesson with a few brief diversions from the real subject; Logan asked if any of the apples were to be made into turnovers or pie. Scott asserted that he didn’t plan to share any of his apples if he didn’t have to, and the room threatened to dissolve into chaos until Mrs. Walters rapped her pointer on the desk.

“Let’s move on from apples,” she suggested. “Let’s put away the arithmetic primers, and-” She paused at the low knock at the door of the schoolhouse, and she swept out from behind her desk in a swish of muslin skirts. “Read quietly,” she told them. She went to the door and cracked it open, and the students craned themselves around in their seats, craving a glimpse of their unannounced guest. Mrs. Walters stepped out of the room, out onto the steps, quietly closing the door behind her. As she walked out to greet the man dressed in a smart gray suit and pinstriped waistcoat, the children watched him step aside and usher a young boy forward, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. He smiled brightly and was animated as he spoke to Mrs. Walters. The children in the back of the room crept out of their seats and pressed hands and faces against the window, trying to see and hear the conversation.

“He looks your age, Logan,” Sharon informed him.

“So?” he huffed.

“Well, he does.”

“Let’s see,” Sam urged, and he tugged Steve out of his seat and found a step stool so he could see over his friends’ shoulders out the window, until Sam finally pulled him to the front of the group for a better look.

Steve’s eyes were riveted on the boy, a miniature version of his father. He had a wiry build and gleaming, wavy dark hair with glints of auburn in the direct sunlight. Fair complected, with a spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and when he glanced toward the window, Steve noticed his eyes, a clear, grayish blue, pearly as opals.

The new boy was taller than Steve (hardly surprising), wore much finer clothing than anyone else’s (except Emma, perhaps), and his expression was shrewd. Wary.

Mrs. Walters saw the class clustered around the windows, and she made shooing motions to send them all back to their seats. There was a scuffle as they all hurried back to their desks, but Steve lingered a moment longer. He watched the boy and offered a glimmer of a smile and a small wave. The boy removed his hand from his pocket and waved back hesitantly, as though he wondered if it was allowed.

Steve went back to the desk and tucked himself in next to Sam, thoroughly intrigued now.

Sam asked the question before it could leave Steve’s tongue. “Do you think he’ll play with us?”

Steve gestured uncertainly, toying with his quill. He leaned in close and admitted on a loud whisper, “I don’t know, Sam.” Then, “I just hope he’s not _mean._ ”

“Me, too,” he admitted. He didn’t mention out loud that he hoped he wouldn’t want to spend his time with Gill, Obadiah, Victor, or some of the older boys who always teased them during lunch. 

They straightened up in their seats, and the buzz of chatter around the classroom came to an abrupt halt as Mrs. Walters entered, ushering her newest charge inside. Steve silently treated himself to a longer look this time. Yes, this new boy had on much nicer clothes than his, and he topped him in height by at least three inches, or perhaps four. He automatically removed his gray wool cap and straightened out his hair, smoothing it with his fingers. 

“He has pretty eyes,” Sharon whispered to her cousin Peggy. 

“He probably still has cooties,” she replied on a whisper, but she quietly agreed.

“Timothy, you don’t have a neighbor yet. Slide over and make room for James. Class, this is James Barnes. He is new to our school.”

Timothy Dugan scooted over to the left, making room for James on the aisle seat. Timothy was taller, older, and one of the loudest boys in class, boisterous but not unkind. He was aggressively freckled and had brassy red hair. 

“Hey. Do you like toy soldiers?” he murmured. “Or marbles?”

James nodded.

“Come over with us at lunch,” he suggested.

“If the two of you are finished socializing, I would like to start our reading,” Mrs. Walters suggested.

James blushed and ducked his face for a moment, but then he straightened up and paid attention to the lesson. 

Steve followed along with the lesson with some distractions. Sam elbowed him lightly.

“Pay attention,” he hissed.

“I am.”

Slightly.

The new boy’s presence intrigued him. Steve kept sneaking looks at him, quickly averting his eyes every time James looked up. Steve’s skin prickled hotly and true bashfulness swamped him. By the fifth time, James caught him, and Steve’s breath felt trapped in his chest. A thrilling little chill of panic ran over his flesh when their eyes met, and James’ brows beetled together. That made Steve jerk his head forward immediately, determined to face front for the rest of the day if it meant his heart would stop pounding.

Moments later, he wondered what had just occurred.

James huffed under his breath.

“What’s the matter?” Timothy asked.

“Nothing.” Then, “Is the little one over there always like that? He’s acting odd. He keeps looking over here.”

“Just curious like a cat. That’s what my mum says,” Timothy mentioned on a whisper. “He’s all right, for one of the young ones. He’s scrappy, but he’s not bad at playing ball, when he’s here.”

That gave James pause. “Are there days when he’s not?”

“Uh-huh. He’s sickly,” Timothy shrugged, as though that explained everything.

James hummed.

Mrs. Walters looked up at the sound. “James? Did you have a question?”

 _Not about what we’re doing right now. About the little one up front._ But James knew that wouldn’t be polite. And he noticed him glance back at him one last time, because now that the teacher’s attention was on James, too, it was okay.

There was no hostility or amusement in his face. Just friendly interest. James decided he didn’t have a problem with that. 

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t.”

“All right, then. Let’s get back to what we were doing, shall we?”

Mrs. Walters didn’t know she was to function with all of these interruptions. It would be a long day of school, indeed.

*

The weather held while the children took their luncheon and recess outside, leaving Mrs. Walters to herself inside for some precious peace. She worked on her lesson plan and cleaning up the room while various games carried on in the small field surrounding the schoolhouse. The sky overhead was a hazy blue and graying around the edges; the clouds rolled overhead in a constantly shifting tumble, uncertain of where to throw shadow.

Steve and Sam managed to start a ball game with the other younger boys. The leather ball was battered and worn, but it was Scott’s prized possession. A dead tree trunk served as goal for Logan’s side; an old wooden crate sufficed for Scott’s. James initially considered going over with the younger boys when they huddled together and broke into teams, but Timothy tugged his arm, bringing him over to their side before he could choose. 

“Come with us,” he urged. “We’re gonna win, I bet.”

“You said that one was good,” James reminded him, nodding to Steve.

“Little Steve Rogers?” he scoffed. “Good for being a little squirt, but not better than _us_.”

That gave James a name for him, finally. He saw him get up from the pail where he was sitting and tuck a small book into his pocket. James was immediately curious about its contents. He jogged over eagerly, bumping elbows with Sam, the one who boastfully called out, “You all have two left feet!”

“We’re not here to dance!” Logan called back. “We’re here to play ball and to knock you on your ars-” 

Timothy shushed him, eyes wide with alarm, even though he was grinning. “Don’t curse, don’t let Mrs. Walters hear!” Logan chuckled and shook his head, shrugging.

“It’s gonna be easy,” he assured him. “It’s almost not fair.”

On the other side of the field, the girls played with small teacups and chipped saucers, dollies, and jump rope. They watched the boys furtively, giggling and murmuring behind their hands. 

“They’re always so rough,” Emma remarked as she watched Sam get knocked aside. He scrambled quickly to his feet and jostled his way back to the ball, managing to kick it away from James Morita, who preferred to go by Jim. 

Ororo winced as she watched Steve get shoved aside just as roughly, but he shoved Gilmore back without hesitation. “I don’t like him,” she pronounced.

“He’s good at every single game,” Emma said, as though that excused his behavior.

“He’s mean,” Ororo corrected her. Gilmore attempted to play “keep away” with her favorite dollie once. _Once._ She kicked him firmly in the shins with her best high-buttoned leather boots and cured him of any future urges. The lecture from her adoptive fathers was tedious but gentle. If Ororo had it to do over, she would gladly kick him again. 

Sam managed a goal to a mixture of raucous cheers and taunts. James was impressed.

“Not too bad,” he offered, accompanying the praise with a friendly shove. Sam grinned and jostled him back. _He’s not mean. Now Steve doesn’t have to worry,_ he reasoned. 

“Bet I can do it again!”

“Bet I will first!”

They ran the field as the winds whipped at their clothing, making jackets flap and threatening to blow off wool caps. Steve managed to edge himself into the fray, kicking the ball loose from the clutch of players and moving it nimbly toward Logan’s goal.

“Hey, shrimp! Stop him before he makes it to the other side!”

“He’s fast,” Timothy huffed. “Sneaky little squirt!”

“Run, Steven! KICK IT! GO!” Peggy called out from the edge of the field, no longer interested in dolls or jumping rope. Sharon clutched the coiled rope against her mid-section and watched, just as rapt. “He’s going to do it!”

“GO, STEVE!” young Darcy called out.

But before he could deliver the kick that would score him the goal, Gilmore tripped him, then shoved him in the back, sending him sprawling. Steve felt the sharp jolt of impact and the burn of his knees scraping the cruel ground, unprotected by his short trousers. They stung as he staggered to his feet while Gilmore kicked the ball toward the opposite goal.

“That’s too rough!” Sharon cried.

“Mrs. Walters! LOOK!” Darcy added, hurrying back toward the schoolhouse steps.

Inside, Jennifer Walters sighed gustily. “Good heavens. No rest for the weary or the wicked, I supposed. What’s going on with these rascals, now?” But she saw Darcy tripping up the steps, dark curls bobbing, looking panicked, and she opened the door quickly.

“What’s wrong, dear?”

“Steven fell down,” she told her. “He’s bleeding!”

“Oh, good heavens!” She practically flew down the steps, picking up her skirts, the heels of her boots sinking slightly into the field as she ran. Steven was dusting off his trousers rather futilely and gingerly probing his scraped knees, attempting to pick at the embedded blades of grass and bits of gravel.

“Oh, goodness, no, don’t do that, Steven. Let me help. Let’s get you straightened out and cleaned up. How did this happen?”

The boys gave pause when their teacher arrived, shifting and looking guilty. Steve stubbornly stayed mum.

“He was pushed,” James said suddenly.

“I tripped,” Steve insisted, suddenly nervous and at a loss. 

James opened his mouth to argue with him, but Steve shook his head. His expression was pleading, and his hand was fisted at his side. James’ brows beetled again.

Steve felt embarrassed in that instant, torn between wanting to take umbrage against Gilmore to save face, and knowing he had to follow his teacher’s rules regarding fighting (that he _shouldn’t_ ). But this, somehow. This was just… _worse_. James looked like he might want to be a friend. Would he want to be, now, if…?

“Weakling.”

Gilmore let the word slip past his lips at a low mutter, then clapped his hand over his mouth, ducking his teacher’s scrutiny.

“What was that?” Mrs. Walters demanded. “Who said that?”

Steve’s eyes burned, and then his vision blurred. He needed to look away for a moment. Away from James, from Sam, from the girls where they just stared.

“No, he isn’t!”

 _James._

There were rules, but then, there were _rules._

Unspoken ones. Common knowledge that defied the need for explanation or elaboration. Silent tenets that children simply understood, without question.

Chief among them was that no child wanted to be a tattletale. Being right wasn’t worth being _lonely_. 

Steve was already small. Already sickly. And he refused to let the schoolyard hear him bleat about any wrongdoing that he’d suffered, even if Gil was likely to only do it again. Sam quietly came up to him and handed him something. Steve looked down and saw his drawing journal.

“Here. It fell out of your pocket,” he offered as he pressed it into his friend’s hand and gave his arm an awkward pat. Sam’s eyes flitted over him, asking the silent question _Are you all right?_ Sam was the vicar’s son, and _Playground violence didn’t become him._ Sam and Steve bemoaned Sam’s status and its own unique set of rules while they fished in the creek and poked at crawling insects. He’d received his fair share of tedious yet gentle lectures bolstered by Scripture, yet Darlene and Paul Wilson knew they had their hands full every time they saw that glint in their son’s eye. 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered. His nose was running a little, and Sam reached into his own pocket for a cotton handkerchief and pushed it at him. Sam had stood up for Steve before. He’d stood between Steve and Gilmore, or any of the other older boys who had ever pushed him down, and every time, Steve grew upset. Sam was familiar with how Steve reacted when he felt that hot prick of shame. _I can do this by myself, Sam. Next time, leave me alone, Sam. I can get by fine on my own, Sam._ It hurt more to be rebuffed by Steve than it did to watch someone mistake his small size for weakness. Yet it still crushed Sam to watch him _hurt_.

Sam backed away, then, not wanting to crowd him, because, that, too, made things worse, somehow. It always did.

Darcy didn’t agree. She ran up to him and pulled on his hand, tugging insistently. “Come inside, we have to get you cleaned up.”

“A brilliant suggestion,” Mrs. Walters agreed, and she carefully collected Steve against her side and walked him inside the schoolhouse. “The rest of you have five more minutes outside.” Darcy let go of him, then, to Steve’s everlasting relief.

There was a chorus of “Awwwww’s!” around the field, but as soon as their teacher disappeared back into the schoolhouse, Gilmore, Victor, and the rest of the older students snickered amongst themselves. Except for a paltry few.

“Didn’t have to shove him around,” Timothy scolded, and Gilmore shook him off, reaching out to slap the ball from Scott’s grasp and kick it around.

“I got the ball away from him, didn’t I? That’s the point.”

“Not like that,” James argued.

“What? Are you going to stick up for the squirt? He _is_ a weakling. Maybe _you_ should change his nappies for him!”

“He’s little, but he’s faster than you and better with the ball,” James told him, nonplussed. “He doesn’t need me to change his nappies if he can make you chase around after him like a big, dumb clod!”

“What? You’re going to stand here and fight for him, fancy boy? Huh?” Gil was unimpressed. He gave James a sharp poke in the chest, pinching the lapel of his jacket and rubbing it before dropping it, making a face as though James was filthy. He attempted to kick the ball again and restart their interrupted game for the few minutes that they had left, but James grabbed his upper arm, squeezing it sharply. Gilmore shook him off, but James shoved him, and his face was twisted up with indignation, cheeks suffused with color. The words “fancy boy” lit a fire under him, and James decided that he, and Steven, had enough for one day.

Inside the schoolhouse, Darcy stuck to Steven like a shadow, watching him with big, worried eyes. 

“I don’t like bullies,” she whispered to Steve. “Tell her,” she insisted.

“Mind your business. It’s fine,” he whispered back. “Don’t tell.”

“I _have_ to,” she rasped, voice slightly louder and perhaps magnified by her attempt to cup her hand around her mouth. Mrs. Walters stood off to the side with a basin of water that she’d pumped outside, ,and she dipped a handkerchief into it and wrung it out. She pretended not to listen to the children, hoping the culprit’s name would shake loose, like an acorn from a tree. Even though she could hazard a guess.

But then, a ruckus outside caught her attention, and she ran over to the window.

“Goodness _gracious_ ,” she hissed. She dropped the handkerchief back into the bowl and hurried back outside. The children were crowded together in the yard around the two currently wrestling on the ground.

James had the upper hand, clutching Gilmore Hodge’s collar in his fist and decking him soundly and repeatedly in the face. “Good Lord,” she muttered, “this won’t do at all, not a’tall… JAMES! JAMES BARNES! BOYS! Stop that fighting AT ONCE!”

She heard Gilmore’s urgent little cries and yelps as he tried to push James off, as well as James’ gasping little huffs that escaped him, almost growling with rage.

“Leave him alone!” he panted. “You leave Steve _alone,_ you ratbag!”

“James! No more! That’s enough! No fighting! And such _language_ , I cannot abide! Break it up. That’s enough! ENOUGH!” She tugged them apart and managed to pull Gilmore to his feet. His nose was bleeding and his cheek was puffy with the beginnings of a deep bruise, and perhaps a black eye. James was panting and just as disheveled. His fine wool jacket was now torn at the sleeve and missing a button, his cap was lying in the dirt, and he had a split lower lip. His cheeks were dirty and tracked with tears, and the two boys glared at each other accusingly.

“Recess is over,” Mrs. Walters pronounced.

By the time she got Steven’s scraped knees cleaned and bandaged, she decided that both older boys had enough time to stand in the back corners of the classroom to cool off. She called James over to her first.

“Let me look at you, young man. Come here.” She took him aside to the back store room and gently probed his wound, making him jerk his head back and hiss. “I’m going to clean it. I also have a bit of clove oil, so it won’t sting so much. This is unbecoming behavior for your first day of school with us, or _any_ day of school with us, James. Do you understand?”

He nodded soberly, then looked down, and a low sigh escaped him.

“I will have to tell your father.”

He winced, but then he nodded, still unable to look her in the eye.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Then you will have to tell Gilmore.”

“Then, I’m _not_ sorry.”

His tone was so vehement that she nearly dropped the small vial of clove oil.

“Then, you will need to be punished.”

“Mrs. Walters?”

“Yes, James?”

“Steve isn’t a weakling.”

It was a quiet statement. Insistent. Earnest. And it gave Jennifer her culprit, confirming what she’d already suspected.

“He’s not,” he added, before he looked away again.

She ushered him back to his seat before she took Gilmore aside to see to his bruises and cuts. James kept sneaking looks at Steve, but this time, the small towhead in the front row of desks refused to look at him.

Steve sat with his hands folded atop his desk, fuming and miserable. His expression was stoic, the only immediate sign of his discomfiture was the pink color that rose up into his ears.

*

Sarah arrived at the schoolhouse to collect her son and exclaimed in alarm, “What on earth happened, sweetheart? Look at your poor little knees!”

“I was playing ball, Mama.”

“Goodness. We might be able to clean those stockings, it would be a shame if they got ruined,” she said, noticing the scant blood stains on the dark, knee-high socks. She noticed that her son was holding a lot of tension in his shoulders, and his lips were tight. Sarah reached down and stroked his bangs out of his eyes. “We need to return to the pharmacy for a while, so I can finish up for the day, Steven.”

He nodded, taking her hand.

“Let me say goodbye to your teacher.”

Sarah paused at the foot of the steps, waiting for Mrs. Walters to finish talking with Ororo’s guardian, Dr. Lensherr. He nodded to her as he left.

“This was a more eventful day than we thought,” he told her.

“I’m afraid it was. Have a lovely evening, Doctor.”

“Mrs. Rogers.” He tipped his hat and ushered Ororo toward his wagon. He lifted her up into the seat. Emma’s father, Winston, arrived on foot for his daughter, as they lived less than a mile from the schoolhouse in the largest house on the street. The children all slowly filed out of the yard, returning home with siblings. With fathers.

Sarah met Mrs. Walters’ kind brown eyes and waited for her to greet her. “We had a rough day. The boys had a scuffle over a ball game.”

“A scuffle?”

“Your son had an avid supporter in our newest student, James.”

“James?”

“Goodness, yes, another boy named James. That name is all the rage, apparently. I haven’t had the chance to ask him how he likes to be called. Have you, Steven?” she asked, but he blew out an exasperated breath.

“No.”

“Well, then! All right. Perhaps he will share that with you another day.”

Steve tugged on his mother’s hand, hanging on it, practically attempting to shake her am off her shoulder until she hissed at him to stop. “Settle down a moment, Steven. Let me finish talking.”

“Gilmore is old enough to know better, and I made sure the punishment fit the crime. Both boys had to take on the classroom chores and missed out on artwork and free reading time privileges.”

“And James?”

“He received chores, too. Neither of them escaped time in the corner.”

Sarah nodded shrewdly. “I’m sure that went over well.”

“Children can be impulsive. One has to move fast when they play together in large groups.” Then she paused when she saw George Barnes preparing to leave with his son in their large, gleaming carriage.

“Goodbye, James! We will see you tomorrow.” She waved, but James paused at the carriage door. He pleaded with his father for a moment and then broke free, running back to the schoolhouse. He stared at Steve and reached down into his pocket.

“Please take this,” he implored as he handed him a small, folded scrap of paper. “Please, just take it.” He shoved it at Steve, who hesitated, but James reached for his hand and tucked the scrap into his palm, urging him to wrap his fingers around it. Steve complied, scowling a little, and then James backed off.

“Goodbye, Steve,” he told him.

Steve let go of Sarah’s hand and waved to him absently, thoroughly confused. He tucked the scrap of paper into his pocket, right next to his drawing journal.

“Goodbye,” Steve murmured.

James darted back to his father’s side and climbed dutifully into the carriage. He watched Steve through the window as it drove away.

“I need to get back to the pharmacy. Steve, I need your help with the pestle.”

He nodded eagerly. “I can help you, Mama.”

“Of course you can.”

“He’s bright,” Mrs. Walters agreed. “This one can do whatever he sets his mind to. He picks things up so quickly.”

“So did Joe.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“We’re carrying on. Have a good evening.”

“May you, as well, madam.”

*

Steve busied himself with the small, light chores that Sarah delegated to him, like sweeping up in the back store room of the pharmacy or blending and crushing herbs and other medicinals with the pestle when she measured them out, standing on a step stool so he could see over the edge of the table. Steve became a regular at the pharmacy while his mother worked as an assistant and nurse to Dr. Abraham Erskine. His apothecary shop was small and well-lit. His customers who couldn’t easily afford his remedies often paid him in livestock or foodstuffs; Mrs. Rasputin paid him for the herbs he’d prescribed with her plumpest hen, which clucked and pecked at him, finding the transaction less than ideal.

They remained at the apothecary until the sun began to set, and Dr. Erskine drove them both home in his wagon.

Sarah sliced Steven a generous slab of bread and spread it with butter for him, letting him eat it while she started a pot of stew. While she diced up celery, carrots and onions and dropped a lump of butter into the pot, he chewed thoughtfully on his bread.

“So, there’s a new boy in your school.”

He paused and set down the bread. The tension was back. Sarah sighed.

“Do you like him?”

“I thought he might be my friend.” Then, “I don’t want him to think I’m a baby. Or a weakling.”

“Oh, Steven. Oh, darling, no!” She paused and joined him at the table, and she reached over to stroke his hair. “I don’t think he thinks that about you at all. In fact, I think he wants very much to be your friend.”

“I don’t…” Steve’s words halted, and she watched something in him change.

“What don’t you want, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want him to think he has to stick up for me.” And his face crumpled, and Sarah knew in that moment, as she had always known, that this was Joseph Roger’s son. So much stubbornness and pride. “I don’t want him to think I’m a baby,” he repeated, and he started sniffling as she drew him close. “I wanted him to like me.”

“I actually think he does.” She hugged him and rocked him, kissing the top of his head. “It’s all right.”

And her son told her about the football game and the taunts, about Gil shoving him again, and about the girls watching him and little Darcy not leaving him alone, and all of the other little indignities that ruined his afternoon. Sarah gave him all of the hugs and reassurances and let him help her finish making the stew.

When she got him ready for bed, she retrieved his pile of school clothes to take to the wash basket.

“Oh. Don’t forget your book. And this.” She handed him the journal and the folded slip of paper without opening either. Steve took them both and scuttled off to his bed. “Pick out which story you want to hear, sweetheart.”

She left the lantern behind. Steve opened up the note and smoothed it out and read it slowly aloud.

“I. I’m. S. Sor-sorry. Y. Y-you are n-nnn… not. A baby. Can… can we be. Ffff. Frrr...ends. Friends.”

Steve smiled to himself, scraped knees and other indignities forgotten.

*

Winifred Barnes handed her husband the post before she moved to help their housekeeper clear away the supper dishes. “I’m going to give the children a bath,” she told him.

“All of the dirt followed them inside, especially Bucky,” George mused.

“I hope he’s thought about his temper.” Winifred sent him from the table without dessert, an understandable consequence for fighting and ruining his good jacket.

_“I will certainly discuss it with him, dear.”_

_“Anything new?”_

_George shrugged at first, until he saw the gray envelope. The stationery was heavy and of good quality, and the sender sealed it with dark blue wax. George cracked it open and extracted the letter. He unfolded it and pulled out his monocle, reading the first few lines in the wavering candlelight._

_“Oh, dear,” he muttered._


	3. If Wishes Were Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Becca said you needed me, Mother?” 
> 
> “Now that you’ve stopped dithering, yes.”
> 
> Bucky handed his jacket to the young maid, and she bobbed a curtsy before backing out of the room.
> 
> “I can seldom stop myself from dithering,” he told her thoughtfully, stroking his chin for effect. Winifred swatted him with her fan, tsking and rolling her eyes.
> 
> “Just go talk to your father, for heaven’s sake.”
> 
> Bucky would look back on that conversation and realize that heaven was playing tricks on him, certainly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. No more shmoopy woopy kidfic. I promise. Grownup Stucky from now on. With… a teeny, weeny smidgen of flashback here and there. Just a smidgen. Promise. Seriously. Okay. ONWARD!!!!!!!

The rooster’s crow jerked Steve out of a too-short, troubled sleep, and he groaned loudly in disgust, tugging the pillow over his face to block out the bluish glow drifting in through the curtains. “Ugh…” The chill in the room told him that the fire he’d lit the night before died down to ashes, and his muscles and joints ached from it, but he knew that getting up and moving would help. 

“It always starts all over again at dawn,” he grumbled as he slowly rolled upright, stretched and scratched himself all over. His fingernails rasped noisily through his beard; he still wasn’t quite ready to shave it, despite Sam’s claims that it made him look like a pirate. His best friend’s own mustache was always neatly trimmed, and no one would ever mistake Samuel Wilson for anything less than a gentleman. No matter how often Steve warned him away from him, claiming that a friendship with Steve would ruin his reputation, Sam would shake his head and demand, “Good heavens, Rogers, will you simply _shut up_ with that nonsense?”

Sam deemed himself a sound judge of character. His reputation wouldn’t suffer at all for continuing his friendship with one Steven Grant Rogers. Over the years, Steve had suffered unfortunate health, unfortunate circumstances, and unfortunate loss, but there was nothing at all wrong with his character. His grasp of the social graces was firm, but perhaps not… graceful. 

Steve rose from bed, continuing to scratch in areas that weren’t polite in mixed company, squinted a moment, then hopped to the side as he let out a loud fart. “Onions,” he muttered. All right. Perhaps they needed to be cooked a little longer the next time he attempted Sarah’s stew recipe, but at least he was eating. Still eating rather well, considering the matters at hand.

Steve retrieved a gray shirt that was slightly stained but more than suitable for working outside, heavy woolen trousers, suspenders, and his jacket and work gloves that he wore whenever he was planting or weeding. He set the clothing aside on the chair beside the vanity and made up the bed, detangling and smoothing out the covers and plumping the pillows. Steve couldn’t remember his dreams, but they had been restless and troubled, as usual. 

It was just so hard to focus when his future was up in the air.

Steven was no closer to paying off the bank than he was a month ago, and Alexander Pierce, the head of financing, wasn’t amused, despite the fact that he offered Steve the same brittle, wintry smile every time they spoke. Sarah Rogers left behind fond memories of her character and kindness, but she didn’t leave a fat purse. Joseph’s modest fortune paid for the barest minimum of upkeep for the farm and the tiny cottage they lived in while he was alive; it dwindled down to nothing once Sarah fell ill and could no longer earn their way at the pharmacy. 

Steve was a quick study and assisted properly in the preparation of tinctures, potions and remedies throughout the years. Shortly after Steve’s twelfth birthday, Sarah passed away at dusk, in a candlelit room, while Darlene Wilson clung to her hand and mopped her brow. Abraham took Steven in as his ward, living with him while the good doctor held Steve’s inheritance in trust. He lived like a typical bachelor; his cleaning woman kept his home up to sanitary standards, but it remained perpetually cluttered. His laboratory coat was often covered in dog hair and occasionally featured a soup stain or two. Steven often mimicked his tendencies and habits in lieu of his mother’s guidance regarding manners, etiquette and grooming. Eating the proper course with the proper fork wasn’t a priority; making sure that Abraham had a full cord of firewood stacked along the outer wall of his modest house was. 

Abraham tried. Oh, how he _tried_ to be the father that young Steven deserved. Steve’s toy boats, his old kite and the fairy tale book came with him when he entered the doctor’s household. There were hugs. There were stories. Steven shared his day at school with Abraham over roughly prepared dinners and showed him his sketches, and later, his paintings. Steven received kits of oil pigments, gouache and watercolors for his birthdays and for Christmas, and he was precious with them, using them sparingly and with the utmost care, knowing they were luxuries.

Steve tried to resume his mother’s place at the apothecary shop, until Dr. Erskine went home early one afternoon with a burning fever and persistent cough. Influenza claimed him slowly.  
When Steven’s father passed away, there were distractions. _Come away from there, sweetheart. Let’s go outside, I’ll push you on the swing. Would you like a sweet bun, darling?_ The teachers, or the vicar, or the housekeeper, or his mother’s friends from church or the pharmacy would come all the time to bring food and cloying, well-meaning distractions and kind words that seemed to evaporate as soon as they left their lips.

Abraham provided the distractions when Sarah passed away. So did Sam, darling, charming Samuel and his narrow circle of childhood friends. 

There were no more distractions when Steven lost Dr. Erskine. Burying him and allowing the sale of the shop to Dr. Johann Schmidt and his assistant, Dr. Zola was his sole focus, The transaction was perfunctory and emotionless. Mr. Pierce shook his hand and told him, “Come to me whenever you need me to release you from any more of your burdens, Steven. I’m more than glad to help.”

The only burden he wanted to release him from was his childhood home. Dr. Erskine held it in trust; upon his passing, Sarah’s older brother, Mortimer, resumed it from him as Steve’s last remaining relative, despite the fact that he refused Steve’s guardianship. It was complicated.

Steven despised things that were complicated.

Steve heated up the kettle for tea, and for just enough hot water to bathe. He filled his wash basin on his vanity and then let his cup steep, mentally organizing his day. He needed to take the day’s eggs to market and then see which groceries he could afford from his earnings. Then, he needed to finish watering the orchard, harvesting the potatoes from the garden, and then mix some tonic to take to Mrs. Walters, who complained of a sore shoulder the last time he spoke to her in Sunday services. He would need to spare Billy, his young farm hand, a coin or two for his week’s salary after helping him repair the fence surrounding his pasture.

If he had enough daylight left by the time he finished his chores and his shopping, he could finish work on the painting for Mrs. Walters’ cousin, Professor Banner. He was well to do, kindly, and soft-spoken. He’d admired a painting of some calla lilies that hung in Sarah’s sitting room when he visited for the funeral repast. The professor commissioned Steven to paint him something to hang in his own study, and Steven knew the money was already spent as soon as it landed in his palm, but he still put his heart into painting it. Watching the images in his mind’s eye take shape in soft strokes of paint across the gritty surface of the canvas was a release, and perhaps Steve’s only balm.

There were never enough hours in the day. There were always too many chores, too many responsibilities, and far too few pleasures now that Steven Rogers was all alone in the harsh world. Steve felt like he was drowning, calling to shore with no one on dry land to hear him.

Billy arrived once his tea was ready, and Steve offered him a bowl of porridge with raisins, a meager start to a grueling day, but Billy accepted it, never one to turn down food. The two of them made quick work of feeding the fowl. Steve shooed one of the turkeys off the edge of the water trough and then went to gather the eggs from the coop. 

“Hasn’t rained in a while.”

“I hope the weather holds long enough for me to get back into town,” Steve replied as he carefully checked over each egg collected in the baskets. The clouds were moving slowly across the sky, making the shadows shift across the grass. The breeze brought a whiff of Sarah’s herb garden to him, rich with lavender, rosemary and other savories. Steve considered harvesting some of those, too, to take to market with him, if it would bring him a little more income. Some weeks brought decent yields on everything, particularly in the spring. The vegetable garden yielded enough food for him to feed himself and to store, pickle, dry and ferment enough to store for the colder months. Steve feared droughts more than anything; a brush fire wiped out half of his orchard the year before, and only through Sam’s family’s charity and assistance in replanting was he able to recover what was lost. Steve always thanked heaven for Sam Wilson, in every regard.

Except when Sam chose to be _Sam._

Steve eyed the state of his jacket. It was careworn and stained, with a fraying cuff and a missing button just below the collar. His clothes were clean enough, but rumpled. Sam held out precious little hope for Steve and made this opinion known. Frequently. _Emphatically._

*

“Good Lord. The cat dragged you into the house, took a taste, then left you behind in the corner.”

“We can’t all be fashion plates or compete with Beau Brummell,” Steve had shot back, more than once. 

“Brummell isn’t looking back over his shoulder at _you_. Never fear.”

“You’re terrible for a man’s confidence, Samuel.”

“And that jacket is terrible on my poor, unfortunate eyes.”

“Now, you’re just being rude.”

“I’m not being rude. As your oldest, dearest acquaintance, I’m _giving advice._ And I must advise you throw that jacket into the fireplace, posthaste. It’s an affront to my eyes. I only tell you this because I love you.”

“You don’t love my empty pockets.”

“Well, no. I can’t say that I do.” That made Sam’s usual smile falter. But sympathy shone in his dark brown eyes. “You’re your mother’s son, Steve. You’ll get through this. My money’s on you.”

“I didn’t think you were a betting man, Sam Wilson.”

“Not in polite company. And right now, I’m just with _you_ , so…”

Steve snorted and reached out to swat him, but Sam ducked out of his reach.

*

Sam didn’t have much time for leisurely pursuits these days, himself, while he ran his parents’ estate and continued his studies to become a doctor. Sam cut a dash every time he rode into town, boots polished to an impeccable shine and hair smelling of pomade. His cravat was always perfectly tied, and the Wilson family employed a clever tailor who cut Sam’s suits to fit Sam’s figure like a glove. Several orchards lined the Wilson’s property, but they did not own livestock, so Sam never slopped the hogs or managed a herd of any sort of beast, a fact that Steve cheerfully brought up every time his best friend nagged him about his attire, or his seeming lack of interest in etiquette. This morning didn’t look like it would promise Steve idle time with Sam to chat over tea; the afternoon didn’t, either.

Steve enjoyed the wagon ride into town, breathing in the scents of the surrounding woods and creeks as the horses’ hooves clip-clopped down the road. He sang a few of Sarah’s favorite songs in his smooth, deep voice as he rode, heedless of anyone hearing him (squirrels, perhaps, or a few flocks of swallows, who were merciful critics). Many of his classmates from school had left town after they finished their studies, like Darcy, whose parents sent her off to a finishing school, or Ororo, who sailed across the pond to attend a women’s college on the remote isle of Wakanda. A few of them still recognized him - barely - when he stopped at the bakery, the butcher’s, or the new apothecary. 

Steven was a survivor and a “tough little mite,” by his father’s judgment, but he had his mother’s attention to his nutrition to thank for how well he’d thrived, something Abraham continued in his own household. Abraham sent Steve to the finest specialists to straighten out his crooked spine, and the improvement in his posture aided his respiratory status immeasurably. Steve ran further, faster, and developed the strength gained from a lifetime of working on his family’s farm. At twenty, he was no longer bandy-legged and slight, and his towhead blond hair darkened to a deep, honey gold. Despite Sam’s claims that Steve would never find himself a proper spouse dressed in such ragged attire, Steve didn’t starve for attention from men and women alike. Heads turned whenever he stepped down from his wagon or strode into a parlor.

He charmed customers at the market whenever he sold his eggs, vegetables and herbs. 

“That pretty face of his is the only thing keeping him out of the poor house,” the Frost family’s housekeeper remarked. “I can buy eggs from anyone, like the Rasputins down the road.”

“Their younger boy’s a pretty sight, too, so I don’t blame you, but this one fills out those trousers rather nicely,” replied Tabitha, a young ingenue in a pink dimity dress remarked as she poked at a tray of fine satin ribbons. The housekeeper shushed her, but she nodded vigorously in agreement.

Steve was actually trading goods with “the younger Rasputin boy,” Piotr, a few moments later.

“I’ve some chamomile and some eucalyptus, and some nice rosemary, if your mother wants anymore of it,” Steve offered.

“Da. She just used the last of it. I’ll take what you have left of it, tovarisch.” Peter handed Steve two small but heavy burlap sacks. “The potato crop came in well.”

Steve could practically taste the stew he had planned. “Then, take some eggs, too.” Money helped, but Steve didn’t mind a good barter with a nice family. 

“Nyet. We have eggs. The herbs are fine. Take the potatoes. Mama says you are looking too skinny.”

Steve snorted, while Piotr simply shrugged and grinned back. Steve wasn’t petite by anyone’s standards, but Piotr topped him by four inches and struggled to find jackets whose sleeves didn’t leave his wrists dangling below the cuffs or the seams straining diligently around the shoulders. Steve was fond of Piotr, silently admiring his dark good looks, sharp bone structure and the wicked little cleft in his chin, but rumor had it that his younger sister introduced him to Alexandra Gabler during her first Season ball, and that sparks flew, despite his lower status. Piotr, like Steve, was a talented artist and also hired himself out to draw and paint portraits.

Abraham hired the finest tutors for Steven to keep him up to speed with his peers whenever he was bedbound with grave illness, including local artists who helped him to hone his own craft and natural talent. Piotr developed his talents on his own, since his parents didn’t have the funds to spend on his education with two other mouths to feed, namely his older brother, Mikhail, known around the village as an eccentric and a bit of a rakle, and his younger sister, Illyana, whose innocent demeanor and fair good looks belied a mischievous streak and gossiping tongue. 

They continued their dickering, and Piotr finally moved on to the butcher’s shop to purchase some oxtails and cutlets. Steve beckoned to the crowd with friendly calls of “Fresh eggs for sale! Fresh eggs for your breakfast table! Boil them, coddle them, fry them, you won’t be disappointed! Fresh eggs for sale!”

Within a couple of hours, his baskets were empty, and his pockets were full of coins and a few small notes. Steve wandered about the market and purchased a few things for his own cupboards, even a couple of luxuries, like the kerosene oil and a bar of fine lavender soap. He stopped just short of spending Billy’s wages, checking his pocket to make sure he still had it before he loaded up his wagon with his goods. 

Steve’s attention was caught by a high-pitched, tinkling, feminine laugh. He turned and saw a medium height brunette in a pale blue linen day gown and a bonnet with matching ribbons walk out of the millinery carrying a hat box under her arm.

“I’ll be sure to have Mother send you an invitation, she will be tickled pink to see you again, Emma darling.” Steve watched as she continued to back out of the doorway, not watching for the three deep steps that led down to the curb. 

“Miss!” he called out. “Watch your step!”

But she didn’t heed him, and she continued her giggling promises to keep in touch with her friend who remained in the shop, giving her vapid reassurances without the benefit of a practical warning to _turn around._ Steve dropped the bag of potatoes into the back of the wagon and hurried forward, accidentally bumping into a gentleman barely managing a heavy crate of produce.

“Watch yerself!” he cried as Steve jostled him.

“Sorry, man! Miss! MISS! LOOK OUT!” She turned her head slightly, but not before she moved her left foot one more ill-planned step, making her stumble over the edge. She let out an unbecoming squawk of alarm as she tumbled backward, and the hat box flew up into the air, along with the small reticule she carried. Steve darted behind her, catching her as she fell back into his arms, letting out a low “Oof!” as she made impact. Sharp reflexes sent his left hand flying out to catch her reticule, and he shifted her into that arm and caught the hat box with his right with a brief fumble, but then snapped it against his side.

“Oh, my… thank you, sir. Goodness, I would have taken quite a spill.”

“You _did_ take it, miss,” he pointed out awkwardly, but he smiled as he helped set her back onto her feet, then gently handed her back the reticule and the hat box. “Er. And. You’re quite welcome.” He tipped his hat to her, then put it back on just as quickly once a glance in the storefront window showed him that his hair was a smashed wreck.

“Well…!”

Steve felt himself flush to the roots of his hair as her mouth worked, trying to find the right response. But she eventually managed.

“There certainly would have been a less fortunate outcome, then.”

Just as Steve opened his mouth to make his excuses, a tall, comely blonde wearing a white gown with a bodice that was lower cut than daytime fashion indicated appeared in the doorway, and she gave him a sly, almost feline smile.

“I’d make an introduction, but it looks like Steven did that himself. Rebecca, this is Steven Rogers. We were school chums, once.”

_Hardly_ , he didn’t say, even though it lingered on the tip of his tongue.

Emma Frost hadn’t changed much since their childhood. Finishing school hadn’t smoothed out any of her sharp edges.

“He has such an attentive eye and quick hands.”

“Mmmmm,” Emma considered, and she raised her eyebrows at him. “Does he, now?”

Steven Rogers knew he was red as a beet, and that Emma wasn’t anywhere near finished. “Er. I need to… to go now. I just bought… milk. It will… spoil.” He tipped his hat again, regretting it instantly once he remembered the state of his hair, but he still managed a polite smile before turning on his heel, climbing up onto the seat of his wagon, and giving the reins a sharp crack. He rode off quickly, but the sound of his horses’ hoofbeats didn’t drown out Emma’s low laughter.

“Emma,” Rebecca chided. “Don’t. You’ll embarrass the dear man.”

“Dear man,” Emma scoffed. “He’s hardly that, darling. Steven Rogers is as rough around the edges as they come. There was hope for him before his mother passed away, perhaps, but once Dr. Erskine assumed his guardianship… goodness.” She shuddered for emphasis. 

“I don’t think his rudeness was intentional. Perhaps he just doesn’t know how to speak to members of the fairer sex. He was gallant enough to look out for my safety.”

“He’s _ridiculous_ ,” Emma assured her. “Oh, Rebecca. Weren’t we supposed to meet your brother in town?”

“He was thinking about a trip to the barber’s,” Rebecca clarified. Then she glanced down the street. “Oh, look, there he is!” She saw Steve’s wagon disappear around the corner of the crowded street, but then her brother’s gleaming dark head emerged from the barber shop, and he stepped into the throng of patrons and vendors enjoying the mild midday sunshine.

“There he is,” Emma repeated. She pulled her fan from her reticule and fanned herself none too subtly as the eldest Barnes child approached.

She smiled as he drew closer, having to slowly look up. He stood just shy of six feet, appearing slightly taller in the gleaming Hessian boots and snug, cream-colored breeches. His long, blue wool overcoat brought out his pale, blue-gray eyes. “Good afternoon, James. I’m sure you remember me, but perhaps your sister could reintroduce us.”

“Little Emma Frost,” he offered, and his smile dimpled becomingly. Emma detected a hint of amusement in his tone. “How you’ve grown.”

“I’m hardly little,” she tsked, but she rapped him lightly on the shoulder with her fan. “I was only two or three years behind you, sir.”

“I can’t imagine you behind anyone, Miss Frost. But, you’re looking very well.”

She beamed, and Bucky suppressed a sigh. Becca’s friends were tedious at best, but he knew the Frost girls to be rather exhausting. Christian, the eldest and the only son, was decent, if a little full of himself at times. Three weeks was just long enough to reacquaint himself with the local color and townsfolk; fourteen years was just long enough to pack elegant, lean muscle onto his almost six-foot frame. James Buchanan Barnes, or Bucky to those who loved him, broke hearts with but a glance. Emma was sizing him up, perhaps hoping for something more than an introduction. An _invitation._ Bucky gave her a polite smile and drew back. He turned to Becca, who was watching the exchange with droll amusement.

“Mother expects us at tea with Aunt Catherine.”

“Cucumber sandwiches, oolong, and much hand-wringing. I can hardly wait.” Becca nodded, chuckling, and he elbowed her the way he did when they were children.

Emma’s smile remained fixed in place, but there was a bit of confusion in her eyes when Becca elbowed him back and stuck out her tongue at her brother, crossing her eyes in unladylike fashion. Brother and sister teased and shoved each other casually, ignoring onlookers’ stares of amusement and disapproval, and Emma cleared her throat.

“Shall we go, then? I promised Mother I would return home quickly. Cordelia is bringing the baby over for a visit.”

“Oh, that’s right. Don’t be late, Bucky, or Mother will let you have it.”

“What? You would have me show up on time and deprive you of your favorite entertainment?”

But he leaned over and fondly kissed her cheek. “I will behave,” he murmured. “Goodbye, ducky.”

“Goodbye, _Bucky._ ”

Bucky strolled off toward a local confectioner’s, while Emma and Becca climbed into the Frost family’s carriage. Bucky enjoyed his dwindling leisure time immensely, skin still tingling from his shave at the barber’s. He perused the sweet shop and felt his mouth water at the array of enticing sweets, gleaming, rich chocolate truffles and trays of fancy toffees and creams.

“Welcome, sir, and good day,” a cheerful tenor greeted him. “Which of my lovely treats may I interest you in today?”

“All of them,” Bucky admitted. “Good afternoon,” he added belatedly.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you look so familiar…”

Bucky cocked his head, brow furrowing for a moment. The young man before him wore a pristine white apron and cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up over his elbows, revealing well developed biceps. He was taller than Bucky and had sandy brown hair and clear blue eyes. His profile was pleasantly irregular; his nose looked as though someone had fractured it for him more than once. His jaw was rakishly square and he had a widow’s peaked hairline. For some reason, Bucky’s memory was prodding him and offering him a vision from his childhood. A young boy with carefully patched, well-worn clothing and freckles, gangly limbs protruding from beneath his hems.

“Clint?” Bucky attempted.

His face lit up, and he came around the other side of the counter and reached for Bucky’s hand. His grip was just shy of punishing, and he practically shook Bucky’s arm off with his greeting. Clint clapped his shoulder warmly. “James! James Barnes, right?”

“It’s been an age.”

“It feels like minutes! Look at you, all crisply starched.”

Bucky’s nose scrunched when he smiled. “Give my mother credit for that. She holds strong opinions about her children’s appearance and subjects me to a full inspection before I cross the threshold.”

“Even checks behind your ears?” Clint teased, reaching out to tug his lobe, and Bucky laughed, swatting his hand away. “Oh, come on, now. Take a look around my shop. Every single thing is delicious.”

“Please refrain from making such claims. My stomach is listening to you with far too much enthusiasm.”

“Come, come. Try one of these.”

“How much are they?”

“Taste one. First one is free.” Clint indicated a tray of perfectly formed truffles dusted with cocoa powder, “This one is amaretto. Almond liqueur and a bit of marzipan paste. It’s quite rich.”

Bucky contemplated it, then asked him, “What about these?”

“Oh, that one is lemon cream.”

“That one, then.”

“Not the amaretto?”

“Never the marzipan, I’m afraid.”

“I will not mock your judgment. Even though it is lacking in this regard.” Clint still plucked a truffle from the dish with a pair of tongs and delicately set it atop a linen napkin. “This one is lovely, though. Light and creamy, and slightly tart. I know you will enjoy it.”

Bucky picked up the truffle and pressed it between his lips, then moaned in pleasure. Rapture suffused his face. “Good Lord, man. Oh, my word.”

“Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Sinful,” Bucky corrected him. “I will take a dozen.”

“I sell them in these boxes by the pound.”

“Then, I will take a pound.”

“I may have to let you taste one more, since you’ve fallen so neatly into my clutches… er, I mean, have become such an ardent customer,” Clint teased.

“Is this one dark chocolate?”

“That one is my favorite. The cream filling is made with raspberries. When you bite into it, the center is a gorgeous purple.”

It was just as rich and decadent as the lemon one, and Bucky didn’t refrain from licking his fingers before using the proffered napkin. “I may offer these as a bribe to Mother with the hope that she will let me out of my appointment with my aunt for tea.”

“Have I met your aunt?”

“Catherine Burrows.”

Clint huffed, then rubbed his nape. “She’s legend in these parts.”

“If you mean that she is a tough old bird, then you are not wrong.”

Clint huffed a laugh as he finished boxing up Bucky’s purchase.

“A pound of the raspberry, too. They must come home with me.”

Clint grinned. “It will be my genuine pleasure, James.”

James almost corrected him, wanting him to know that he preferred “Bucky,” but he thought better of it. 

Money changed hands, Clint sent him off with another of his vigorous, jarring handshakes, and Bucky returned home on his horse, feeling satisfied that he rode into town on the white gelding, Alpine, instead of taking the carriage.

The Barnes’s sprawling estate dwarfed many of the surrounding properties and boasted a shady creek that Bucky remembered playing in during childhood visits after they had moved away, at his dowager aunt’s behest. Bucky kicked up the horse’s pace to a smooth gallop and tore out across the countryside, letting the wind whistle in his ears, tightly grasping the boxes of chocolates under his arm.

Within minutes, he trotted up to the stables and met Arnie, his father’s footman. He was dressed in livery and looked pleased with Bucky’s arrival.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Hello.” Bucky climbed down and handed him the reins, and Arnie walked Alpine back into his stall so he could be curried and fed.

“Your parents are in the den, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Bucky strode into the house through the kitchen entrance, nodding to the cook. “Hello, Pietro.”

His family’s cook was young and lean, with mischievous blue eyes and hair that went prematurely gray by the time he was sixteen, but his looks were striking nevertheless. “Good afternoon, Mr. Barnes. You look like you enjoyed your ride.”

“I worked up an appetite. What have you been working on in here?”

“Lamb stew with dumplings, a salad of spring greens, corn pudding, and an apple crumble with fresh cream for dessert, sir.”

“I thought Mother expected us to go to tea at Aunt Catherine’s.”

“Your father asked for this, sir. He suggested that he might be developing a head cold, sir.” Amusement danced in Pietro’s eyes, however, telling Bucky that his father planned to duck out of his mother’s luncheon plans.

“Please save me a plate,” Bucky asked. Pietro winked at him and nodded knowingly.

“Save me your appetite, sir.”

“It won’t be hard.” Tiny sandwiches, tea, and his aunt’s sour disposition and nagging would certainly leave him starving for a decent, quiet meal by the time he returned home. The kitchen was spacious and airy. Gleaming pots and pans hung from hooks above the stove, and the pantry was well stocked. Pietro’s sister, Wanda, handled all of the scullery chores in the kitchen and often helped him chop vegetables and knead dough. They bickered as often as Becca and Bucky did, but they were very, very close.

“You didn’t put enough salt in the stew, Pietro!”

“It’s salty enough! And why would I trust your judgment on that sort of thing?”

“Because someone has to keep you from serving this family tasteless stew.”

Bucky exited the kitchen, still carrying the chocolates under his arm. Becca looked up from the overstuffed chair in the sitting room as he walked past and stopped him.

“Mother is looking for you.” She peered at the boxes with interest. “What’s that?”:

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You are such a _brat,_ Bucky.” She set down the small needlepoint tea towel she was working on and approached him. “Oh, you stopped at the sweet shop!”

“How did you know?”

“Ororo took us there last week. You remember her from school, don’t you? She was the lovely girl we met at school, the one with the stunning white hair… oh, maybe you wouldn’t remember her, but she and Emma were staunch friends. At least they were back then.”

“I only have the vaguest memory, and you were so little back then, I’m surprised you remember them from back then at all.”

“Father took us to visit the Professor for a few summers, remember?” she prodded. Then she reached for the boxes, attempting to tug one out of his grasp, but he swatted at her hand.

“Keep your mitts off of these, little sister!”

“I’ll tell Mother you’re hogging the sweets,” she threatened, as though he was seven again.

Bucky rolled his eyes and opened the box of lemon truffles, “Happy, now? Take one, Becca. _One._ ”

She smirked up at him in triumph and delicately plucked one from the box. “Thank you.” She popped it into her mouth and hummed in approval. “Exquisite.”

“Aren’t they?”

“One more?”

“You’re lucky that I can tolerate you.” He allowed her to take one of the raspberry ones this time.

“Go. Mother is in the study.”

Bucky took his leave and headed into the study, wandering through the corridors hung with oil paintings and family portraits. The wallpaper and tapestries and damask cushions throughout the house were comforting and familiar. All of Bucky’s happiest memories happened here, whenever they spent summers in town. When George announced that they were moving back here permanently, Bucky was over the moon. 

“Becca said you needed me, Mother?” 

“Now that you’ve stopped dithering, yes.” Winifred sat at the heavy, highly polished mahogany desk and reviewed the household accounts in George’s ledger. She was a pleasingly plump, handsome woman of middle years with her son’s eyes and chestnut brown hair. Hers was softly streaked with gray and styled in an elegant pompadour. “Take off your coat, Bucky, for heaven’s sake. You’re inside.”

Bucky handed his jacket to the young maid, and she bobbed a curtsy before backing out of the room.

“I can seldom stop myself from dithering,” he told her thoughtfully, stroking his chin for effect. Winifred rose from her desk, approached him and swatted him with her fan, tsking and rolling her eyes. Bucky snickered and pretended to duck, and she brandished her fan to swat him again.

“Just go talk to your father, for heaven’s sake. What on earth took you so long to come back? I thought you were only stopping at the barber’s.”

“I was tempted by the confectionary shop down the road. It was wonderful. You must try these.”

“Ooh.” Winifred’s eyes lit up at the sight of the chocolates. “Those look rich. I should save my appetite for Catherine’s tea.”

“What does Father want?”

“We’ve been meaning to discuss your plans since you came home from Pembroke.”

“I’m planning to spend time with my beloved family. I am at your beck and call, here to respond to your every whim, Mother,” Bucky quipped.

“Goodness, you are terrible. Please stop that. You sound like your father. Seriously, Bucky. You have finished your studies. What next?”

“I have some thoughts in mind.” It was on the tip of his tongue to explain to her about his unfinished projects that occupied his time. Bucky was unsure of her reaction, and Winifred appeared to be in one of her moods to explain to him where his life was headed if he didn’t accept her guidance.

“Some ‘thoughts in mind.’ Goodness gracious, Bucky. That sounds frivolous.”

“I assure you, it’s not.”

“Then go and assure your father of these thoughts of yours. We sent you to Pembroke for a reason. I hope our investment bears fruit.”

Bucky held up his hands in concession, and then he leaned in and kissed his mother’s soft cheek. “Of course. May I never prove to be infertile ground for your infinite wisdom…”

“Brat,” she tsked, but he succeeded in teasing a smile out of her, and she kissed him back. “Go. Talk to him.”

Bucky would look back on that conversation and realize that heaven was playing tricks on him, certainly.

As he left the study, George actually found him just as he turned to climb the stairs. George was heading down, well groomed and impeccably dressed, not looking at all like a man with a head cold. Bucky smiled up at him as he descended. George met him halfway and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Mother said you wanted to speak to me.”

“I do. About your future endeavors.”

“Would you like to hear my thoughts on the subject?”

“Once you’ve heard mine. And I do hope you will be flexible.” George paused. “ _Very_ flexible.”


	4. Bucky Decides to be Very Flexible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I find that due to some extenuating circumstances, I have had to move some of my expenses around.”
> 
> “Meaning?”
> 
> “Meaning that I have had to sell off my late younger sister’s home. More accurately,” Mortimer demured, “I lost it to the bank.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Bucky’s families come to an arrangement of sorts. Steve feels like a puppet and begins to wonder who’s pulling the strings. 
> 
> You knew I’d get to the plot eventually. Somewhat. Okay, just bear with me.

Steve rode up in his rickety wagon to Professor Banner’s house, noticing that the lanterns were lit inside. He whistled cheerfully to himself as he hopped down from the seat and carried the burlap-wrapped package up the front, cobble-paved walkway. He saw a face and hand briefly part the curtains in the front window, and before Steve finished climbing the porch steps, the door opened, and the young maid smiled up at him.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Hello, dear. Professor Banner is expecting me.”

“He certainly is. Please, do come in.” 

Steve refused her offer to take his coat. “I am not planning to stay long.”

“Steven?” Bruce’s voice was soft and pleasant. “Please, make yourself at home! Would you care for some tea?”

The maid eyed him quizzically, and Steve decided it would be rude to refuse. Professor Banner tended to keep to himself, a perpetual bachelor, practically a hermit, even though he was a much sought after guest in all of the nicest parlor rooms in their community. Steve allowed her to take his coat this time, and he handed Bruce the package, which made his eyes light up behind his owlish spectacles.

“You finished it?”

“I did,” Steve told him proudly. “Let me know what you think.”

Bruce untied the string and removed the burlap from the large canvas and turned it over. His breath caught. “Well, will you look at that. Look at all of the hard work you must have put into this. It’s wonderful, Steve!”

He carried it toward the lantern so he could examine it more thoroughly under the soft light. “You’ve captured the trees and how they look when the blossoms come out. That’s my mother’s garden, surely. Look at the detail.”

It was a soft scene of a stately garden in full bloom. Steve stopped by Bruce’s late mother’s estate at his request and he gave him a walking tour of the garden. Steve’s memory was eidetic and photographic, and he hadn’t even needed to do a preliminary sketch while he was on the grounds. He just painted it from memory. Bruce easily recognized the trellis walls, the rosebushes, the statuary and tiny goldfish pond, and it evoked memories that brought tears to his eyes.

“I love it. I absolutely love it.”

Steve released a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding. “You like it. Oh, I’m so glad.”

“No, Steve, I _love it_. All right, then, let me get the money for you. I can’t wait to hang this up.” Bruce set the painting down on the table and ambled off while Bruce’s housekeeper came into the room with a small, fully loaded tea cart, telling Steve that Bruce had been looking forward to his visit and never meant for him to just rush off. It humbled him to be given such respect and kindness.

Steve sat awkwardly on the edge of a plush, velvet-upholstered chair decorated with nailheads and tasseled cushions. He felt too big and rough and dirty for such a pristine, carefully decorated room. But it was furnished in soft, pleasant tones of apple and olive green and eggplant purple. There were daguerrotypes in silver frames taking up space on settees, shelves and the mantelpiece, and Steve smelled a hint of pipe tobacco in the air.

It was the type of home that seemed to beg for a family to occupy it, even though it was just Bruce rattling around in it. Bruce had a comfortable enough income that he would never be left struggling to eke out a living and spend every day working from sunrise to sunset, wondering if that was what his life was meant to amount to. _Struggling_. Never truly _living_.

But Steve put the thoughts aside as Bruce returned to the room with an envelope. It felt satisfyingly thick when he took it from him.

“I know what we agreed upon,” Bruce told him shyly. “I added a bit to compensate you for your trouble in delivering it to my home.”

Steve flushed and smiled, ducking his face, but Bruce clapped him on the shoulder, giving him a little shake.

“No blushing. You have done amazing, exquisite work. It’s worth every penny.”

“Professor Banner-”

“Call me Bruce. My close friends do. Do you take honey in your tea? Or milk?”

“It’s fine as is.”

“Then have a butter biscuit. It’s delicious.” Bruce beckoned for Steve to sit at the small table, and he perched himself across from him on the low ottoman and squeezed a wedge of lemon into his own cup. “You look like you’ve gotten some sunshine. You’ve grown quite tan.”

“When I spend time indoors at all, it’s inside the barn.”

“Where do you usually paint?”

“On a nice day, usually out in the garden. Or on the veranda.”

“That sounds nice!”

They drank tea and Bruce chatted with him, glad to finally have an audience for his opinions on books and articles he was reading and his theories on energy that he was developing into a thesis. Steve listened to him, rapt, not realizing that two hours had flown by, until he looked outside and saw that it was dark, and that the teapot was empty.

“Well, that was nice. Thank you again for stopping by, Steve.”

“Thank you again for the commission.”

“I will spread the word. You are looking for other opportunities, right?”

“Of course!” Steve smiled and shook Bruce’s hand eagerly before his maid brought him back his coat.

“I don’t leave the house much. I just… I need nice things to look at. This makes me smile whenever I look at it. You do such lovely work, Steve.” Bruce’s expression was fond. “Thank you again.”

Steve felt awkward even as an idea sparked. “If… I know you don’t get out much, but if you like, you may visit the farm. Even if it is just to get a breath of fresh air, or… I don’t know,” Steve stammered.

Bruce laughed and nodded. “I will keep that in mind.” Even if the visit never materialized, it felt right to extend the invitation, and in Bruce’s mind, to at least consider it. It was just nice to have a friend who… was _nice_.

Steve rode home in the dark, lighting his way with a small lantern. His house was empty when he returned; Billy had already left in the afternoon, reminding Steve one more time about his salary. Steve opened the envelope and once again marveled at Bruce’s generosity. Yes, it would be enough. Just enough.

Perhaps another chance to paint something pretty would materialize, easing some of Steven’s burdens. Something had to give.

*

Bucky paced in the cozy study while George smoked his pipe. The morning started unremarkably enough. Soft boiled eggs, steak, orange juice, and some fresh bread and jam for breakfast. Becca sat at the piano and practiced a few songs, singing in her clear soprano. The housekeeper and the maids went about the day’s chores, beating the rugs, polishing the bannisters and furniture and silver, airing the rooms and dusting the portraits.

Bucky paused in his sulking stalk and sighed in loud exasperation. “This is truly how you think I should plan for my future?”

“I think you should consider it. That’s how I worded it, didn’t I?”

“Let’s revisit how you worded it. ‘Bucky, your mother and I have found a feasible match for you, and we think you should marry. The marriage would benefit everyone involved and expand our properties and holdings.’” Bucky paused, giving his father a tight smile. “Did I leave anything out?”

“The part where I mentioned that you would receive an income that you will bring into the marriage to maintain your spouse’s estate and live quite comfortably.”

“Yes, you went over that part. But I am still stumbling over the part where you wish for me _to marry_.”

“You’re twenty-two, James. You’re a young man in your prime, you’ve just finished your studies, and this is the perfect time to consider marriage and a home of your own.”

“But… why?”

“Your younger sister wants to have a Season. And your mother and I wish to give it to her, with all of the prerequisite pomp and frippery, and all of that nonsense.”

“And… _why_ does this mean I need to marry?”

“Your mother feels you might steal her limelight.”

Bucky’s mouth worked. He opened it to argue, then closed it again. He finally managed, “Come again?”

“You’re young and eligible and attractive, Bucky. I blame your fine looks on your mother.” George’s tone was fond as he puffed on his pipe. He removed it from his mouth and poked it in Bucky’s direction, however, as he emphasized, “If you attend all of those balls that your sister is likely to attend as her chaperone as a bachelor, many eyes will be on _you._ Your sister is fair enough. But your presence could prove _distracting_ if you remain unmarried.”

“The men who appeal to Becca’s interest wouldn’t try to fill _my_ dance card,” Bucky scoffed.

George snorted. “You don’t know that.”

Bucky felt an annoying hot flush creep over his face, all the way down his neck. He threw up his hands. “This seems rather extreme, Father, don’t you think?”

“The property is lovely. The home is rustic, but spacious. And it sits on a very productive farm. You would help your husband manage it.”

“So. I’m to have a husband.”

“Judging by your past preferences, your mother and I assumed you wouldn’t mind?” George prompted. “Well?”

“Well… no. A male companion, I don’t mind at all. But you’re suggesting a husband. You’re suggesting a _marriage_ , Father.”

“From all accounts, he is kind and hardworking. And easy on the eyes.”

“From whose accounts?”

“From some of my associates in the community.” George rose from the chair and crossed the room, and he scooped up a handful of the pistachios in a cut-glass dish. “The Wilsons. They were very close with the Rogers family.”

“Rogers?”

“Yes. Sarah Rogers was a lovely woman of sterling character. She lost her husband far too soon. They only had one son to inherit after Joseph passed. Now that she’s gone, her brother holds her estate in trust for her son. Except that… he appears to have mismanaged it.”

Bucky paused in his pacing. “Mismanaged it?”

“Yes. Under circumstances that… shall we say, were less than dignified.”

George remembered the conversation well. Alexander Pierce arranged the meeting between them following their encounter at the small inn, while George had been traveling across the countryside for business. Alexander interrupted his musings on the train ride and sat on the bench across from him. “George Barnes?”

He’d looked up in surprise, not expecting to run into anyone familiar that far from home. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“It’s a fine afternoon, indeed. You remember me? Alexander? Alexander Pierce? I’m a friend of Nicholas Fury, the constable. He introduced us at Sunday service.”

“Yes. Of course. You’re a banker, correct?”

“I’m the bank’s director,” he corrected him. He leaned in and shook George’s hand briefly. Firmly. “It’s been a long, long time.”

“You’re looking well.”

“As are you, my friend. Tell me what you’ve been occupying yourself with. How is your family?”

“Changing every time I blink my eyes. The children are all grown up. The missus and I just count each other’s gray hairs, I’m afraid.”

“As long as you are staying busy, and still smiling.”

George beamed, nodding.

They chatted about investments for a while, and Alexander eventually told him, “I’ve come back to town to complete my acquisition of an estate.”

“Acquisition?”

“The owner was unable to continue the payments. Our organization extended as much leniency as we could. You know how these things are.”

“Goodness,” George murmured. Alexander’s smile was almost reptilian.

“Business is business,” Alexander said simply.

“This estate you have acquired… is it valuable?”

“It’s profitable,” he told him. “A large farm with a well-maintained house on the property. Apple orchards. Livestock. A small pond nearby. It’s lovely.”

“The owner doesn’t wish to try to keep it?”

“He isn’t the original owner. I’m afraid he mismanaged it when he was supposed to be holding it in trust for his nephew.”

And so it began. George listened to Alexander’s account of one Sarah Rogers, assistant and nurse to one Dr. Abraham Erskine. Sarah Rogers, nee Sarah Elizabeth Stone, younger sister to Mortimer Stone.

George managed to arrange a meeting, which Mortimer enthusiastically accepted. They convened at a small cafe over fried fish and chips. Mortimer thirstily drank two pints of ale while George contented himself with a small glass of white wine. Mortimer was a man of middle years with rheumy gray eyes and a thinning hairline. His nose was bulbous and pockmarked, and there were scores of tiny, broken capillaries in his cheeks. This was not a man who lived carefully or kept healthy habits like his sister had while she lived.

“I find that due to some extenuating circumstances, I have had to move some of my expenses around.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that I have had to sell off my late younger sister’s home. More accurately,” Mortimer demured, “I lost it to the bank.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

“I had to allocate my funds to other expenses. Some debts that I had to repay…”

George could only well imagine.

“My nephew is a hardworking fellow. Very upright character. We would have been closer, but… he ended up with that Erskine fellow, er…”

“The physician who owned the apothecary?”

“Yes, yes! The very one. He raised Steven up right, as far as I can tell. But we don’t really keep in touch.”

Which explained so easily how he could be so cavalier about gambling away his nephew’s family home and his sole inheritance, when it was the young man’s only source of income.

So, over a long and tedious luncheon, the two men came up with the solution to Mortimer’s problem and a possible path for George’s eldest child. 

*

George handed Bucky the dish, and Bucky took a handful of the nuts for himself. “This isn’t the worst idea that your mother and I have had.”

“That’s a very bold claim, Father.”

“I’ve let her convince me to worse, but this is my idea, and she was surprisingly accommodating. It’s no more ridiculous than the time I let her hang those terrible maroon striped draperies in my study.”

“You want me to marry so I don’t provide a distraction for Becca when she starts her Season.”

“And that also means that we would have more room to place guests who arrive to stay with us. Many of whom will be your sister’s peers. It would be unseemly if-”

“Ah.” Bucky nodded. He saw where this was going.

“Appearances are important, Bucky.”

“Appearances are _essential_.”

“Don’t be impertinent.”

“I’m just absorbing what you told me, Father. I’m to be married, apparently.”

“And would that truly be awful?”

Bucky paused before he popped a pistachio into his mouth, sighing. “Well…”

“Would it?”

Bucky considered this.

His own parents were happy. They bickered and fussed, but they made a comfortable, harmonious home together. Their union had lasted twenty-five years so far, despite the expected difficulties.

George’s work made him have to travel and occasionally uproot his family. They had just arrived in town the year that Bucky turned seven. 

George’s father had passed away unexpectedly. His mother penned him a letter requesting that he return home urgently to settle the estate and handle the burial. George had turned to his wife, ashen-faced, and told her, “I’m so sorry, darling. I’m ever so sorry. I know we’ve just arrived, but we cannot stay.”

Winifred had no sooner hung the parlor curtains before she had to repack their trunks, have them loaded onto the train, and had the rest of their things taken by train to his father’s home town. 

Bucky, who had just attended his first day at his new school, was understandably crushed. He just stared out the window and wept silent, hiccupy tears.

As an adult, Bucky had a strong desire to see what the world had to offer him, but he had just as strong a need to eventually set down roots. And perhaps… he wanted what his parents had. Something solid and love-filled. A partner who would make him laugh every day.

Although a _courtship_ certainly would have been nice…

Bucky still occasionally thought about Steven. He didn’t remember his last name. Just his small, wiry body and his smile like sunshine and the way he sat hunched against the wall of the schoolhouse, sketching. The way he ran to keep up with the older boys and his refusal to back down in the face of unfairness. The memory occasionally pricked him and made him smile. He wondered how he was doing and where he ended up.

And now, his father wanted him to marry. Apparently, George and Winifred weren’t hard pressed to find him a _wife_ and secure a grandchild, something that Bucky found somewhat comforting.

There had been brief flirtations once Bucky’s body developed and his voice deepened. Furtive looks. Secret kisses with both genders. Notes exchanged. The occasional unchaperoned stroll. And later, visits late at night into his classmates’ dormitories while he studied at Pembroke.

George watched him now, waiting for an answer.

“Do you think you could be flexible about this? Would you be willing to consider this arrangement? I think marriage could suit you very well, son.”

Bucky sighed deeply, then shrugged. “I really need to think on it.”

*

The letter from his Uncle Mortimer left Steve flummoxed. He needed to sit down when he reached his kitchen to re-read it, because he simply could not trust his own eyes.

“All right, then,” he muttered. “So. This is how it all ends.”

Billy approached him cautiously, taking in the slump of his shoulders and his knackered expression. “What’s the matter? Did one of the turkeys drown in the trough again?”

“Not yet. I just… I just need a minute.”

“What’s that?” Billy nodded to the letter that was growing creased in Steve’s sweaty grip.

“Some life-changing news.” He stared up at Billy. “My uncle says that he lost the farm, and that the bank will no longer extend him leniency. They are already considering a buyer for the whole property. Lock, stock and barrel.”

Billy whistled and slumped against the wall. His family was one of meager means, too, and he relied on the pittance that Steve managed to give him to support his mother and twin brother, who was currently attending school. 

Steve looked up at him. “I will try to make sure that the new owners keep you on. This is… this is complicated. I _hate_ it when things are complicated.”

“You do. I know that about you,” Billy agreed, nodding emphatically. 

“Come. Sit. Eat.” Steve waved him vaguely to the kitchen table, and the two of them ate some sandwiches that Steve cut from some hearty bread, cold chicken, lettuce and cucumber, adding a spread of mustard to keep it from being too bland. 

“I will keep you on until the bank signs over the deed.”

“Perhaps we can both find work together elsewhere…”

“Billy. That’s…” Steve didn’t discourage this idea. He just nodded and gave him a weak smile.

The two of them worked until sundown, patching the roof of the barn and harvesting the garden. Steve thought back to his encounter with Emma Frost the other day and his excuse that his milk would sour if he waited too long. Because of course he hadn’t _bought milk_ , when he owned a perfectly good _cow_. Billy milked Gertrude, Her Royal Cowness, early that morning before letting her out into the pasture so her calf, Ernest, could suckle to his content. The encounter was awkward, as they always were whenever Steve had to go into town. Talking to women was difficult and off putting, and his tongue always seemed to tie itself into knots. 

Steve didn’t sleep well that night. He lit the lantern and took a glass of warm milk upstairs to bed, and he read from the Grimm’s story book until his eyes finally began to droop. The book always made him feel closer to Sarah.

He read about twelve princesses in their dancing shoes. About Rapunzel trapped in a tower. About Cinderella and her gallant prince. None of them had to worry about money or a farm or helping a friend. About his favorite, the kinder sister in Mother Hulda and her eventual shower of gold coins.

Sometimes, Steve wished he could just be the main character in a fairy tale. Life would be so much less complicated.

*

As if his life hadn’t already been thrown into an odd trajectory with the letter from his uncle, the second letter he received three days later from one George Barnes _absolutely_ made him have to sit down again.

“What on _earth._ ”

The stationery was heavy and expensive; he noticed that as he broke open the rich, green wax seal. The letter was written in flowing, copperplate script.

“Dear Mr. Rogers,

I wish to introduce myself. My name is George Barnes, and I am the individual who was approached as a potential buyer for your estate, whose deed will belong to the bank within a few short weeks.”

Steve continued to read it as Billy entered the kitchen, munching on an apple. He handed one to Steve, who took it from him absently.

“What’s that, now?” Billy asked.

“Another letter.”

“Bollocks,” Billy swore, but Steve held up a hand.

“Let me finish reading it. It’s… it’s not from Mort.”

“Thank God.”

“Hush, now.” 

He continued to read it aloud. “What I would like to do is offer you an arrangement that would help us both. Particularly, it would benefit my son, James. He is twenty-one now, and of age to marry. He has finished his studies at the University of Pembroke. He is well regarded within our community, intelligent, generous, and I think you would enjoy his wit. I know from your uncle that you have held the sole responsibility of maintaining your family’s farm and the house that sits on your property. Mortimer also assured me that the farm is profitable and would make an excellent asset to my family. I am a businessman, but I am also a family man.

I would like to propose an arrangement that is more like a proposal. I would like you to consider marrying my son James.”

Steve lowered the letter. He stared up at Billy, who dropped his half-eaten apple from nerveless fingers, a bite of it still remaining unchewed and pocketed in his cheek.

“ _Bollocks_ ,” he repeated.

“Bollocks,” Steve agreed hollowly. “Surely, this can’t be real?!”

“Read the rest of it.”

He obeyed, growing more confused and flabbergasted as he continued. “You would remain on the property and continue to maintain it, along with whomever you have hired as staff to work the land. My son James would help with the financial management and then manage the household accounts. He will receive an income that he will then use toward the upkeep of your home and your staff’s salary, the feed for your livestock, and whatever tools and supplies you need.

I only ask that you be a committed husband to him in every regard. You must appear with him at social events. You must live together in the same home. You must make all decisions together and arrive at mutually reasonable agreements about how you manage your home. You must both be active within the community. I expect you both to be regular guests in our home. You would acquire a younger sister in this arrangement, James’ sister Rebecca. Perhaps that would appeal to you, as I understand you were an only child.”

“This just gets stranger and stranger,” Billy mused. He gave Steve a blank look. “Can you believe this man? He has bats in his belfry if he thinks you’d agree to this.”

Steve skimmed the rest of the letter and let out a laugh that sounded slightly alarmed. “This is unnatural. Pinch me. Am I dreaming?”

Billy pinched his arm, and Steve jerked back at the smarting nip. “That’s enough.”

“Sorry. But you’re not dreaming.”

“He will pay for the wedding. This man can afford houses, and a farm, and he can just pay for a wedding without thinking about it.”

“Perhaps it will be a modest affair.”

“A strange affair, more like.” Steve chucked the letter onto the table and took a bite out of the apple. Billy picked up his and took it out back to throw into the slop bucket, not wanting to eat it once it had been on the floor. “So, it’s this, possibly, or begging for alms on the street.”

“Perhaps you could just offer to work for him. That would be a fair arrangement.”

“And what about you, Billy?”

“Well-”

“This is ridiculous!” Steve snapped. “I’ve been getting by fine on my own, all this time, and now this man has the audacity to just write a fancy letter full of ‘beneficial arrangements’ asking me to marry his son who I haven’t even met! What is wrong with this son that he needs his father to make the proposal?”

“Wonder if the son is agreeable to this arrangement?” Billy added.

“How would he even feel about living on a farm?” Steve gestured out the window, where Gertrude and Ernest were munching on the grass in the sunshine. “There’s no place for idle hands out here.”

“This son of his has gone to university. Bet he’s never had so much as a dirty fingernail in his life.” Mischief crept into Billy’s dark eyes, and he gave Steve a sly smile.

“Probably not.” That made Steve chuckle.

For some reason, his thoughts drifted back to that boy in school. Older and taller than Steve, with blue-gray eyes that shone like opals and who was skilled with his footwork on the playing field. Hadn’t his name also been James? What a ridiculous coincidence, but then, everything about this arrangement was ridiculous.

Everything.

They finished their late afternoon chores, and Steve sent him off with a basket of eggs for his family and some of the leftover chicken, his salary for the week, and a small miniature he’d painted for Billy’s brother, Tommy.

Steve kept the letter tucked away in the drawer of his mother’s old desk, along with the one from Mortimer. Then, on a whim, he went upstairs and picked up the old book of Grimm’s tales. He opened up the back cover and took out the letter written to him a long time ago. The paper had yellowed a little around the edges. Steve re-read it again, something he did sometimes whenever he was going through something difficult.

“I’m sorry. You are not a baby. Can we be friends?” he read aloud. “You were right, you know. I’m _not_ a baby. And I should really do this on my own.”

At least this letter made him an offer that was harmless and even apologized to him for any hard feelings. Steve remembered that day. He remembered the sting of Gilmore’s fists and the burn of his scraped knees and the shame of his classmates’ stares and jeers.The Emma Frosts and the Gilmore Hodges of the world would always appear in his life like flies in the ointment. Marriage to a rich man’s son might be a temporary solution to Steve’s financial problems, but it could complicate things.

Terribly.


	5. A Silk Purse Out of a Sow’s Ear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve waded in the creek up to his knees, letting the currents ripple and rush against his flesh. The sun warmed his bare back, and he tipped his head back, closing his eyes so he could listen to the breeze rattling the branches overhead.
> 
> “Steve,” Sam called out to him, breaking his reverie to bits.
> 
> Steve turned to him. Sam stood on the bank of the creek, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his crisp trousers. “Thought I’d find you here.”
> 
> His voice wasn’t disappointed. His expression was resigned. Steve felt a tightness in his chest.
> 
> “Sam…”
> 
> “Steve…”
> 
> “I just couldn’t do it, Sam. I just… I _couldn’t.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the most improbable, ridiculous arranged marriage/marriage of convenience story you’ve ever read. I admit this. I own this. I make no explanations or apologies, because I am winging this and just tossing it together as it comes to me. My muse is a drunk bitch.
> 
> Thank her for this next chapter.

“Why are wedding clothes always so complicated?” Steve complained as he stood in the tailor’s fitting room, allowing the assistant to make adjustments to the jacket. He unpinned the hem of the cuff, letting it down a half an inch and repinning it to adjust the hang. 

The jacket was a deep gray with long tails and a narrow, fitted waist that fit Steve like a glove, The waistcoat was a brocade of gray and soft blue silk that brought out his eyes, matched with a blue silk cravat. Darker gray, pinstriped trousers made him appear even taller than usual, even before he stepped into the polished leather shoes with hard soles and slightly higher heel than he was accustomed to.

“They aren’t complicated, Steven. Call them ‘elegant.’ Or ‘dapper,’” Sam corrected him. “Or ‘suave.’”

Steve reached back and tugged at the seat of the trousers. “They feel like they’re crawling up my bum-”

“Good heavens, stop that!”

The tailor’s assistant bit his lip. “Do I need to adjust the fit, sir?”

“No, you simply need to get me out of his monkey suit, That’s how I look, Sam. Like a dancing monkey. Just throw me a coin or two.”

“That won’t be enough to buy back the farm from the bank,” Sam reminded him. “You look sharp. Almost as sharp as me.”

“I’ll try to remain just as humble, Samuel.”

Sam rolled his eyes and chuckled. “I can’t wait to stand up for you.”

“It’s kind of you to do my uncle’s job for him, just like Abraham did for him when my mother passed.” Steve’s tone was bland, but Sam still detected the note of sourness and resentment.

“I will always stand up for you. You know that, Steve.” He reached for his shoulder and squeezed it. “It’s what brothers do.”

It had been their childhood game, as well as a pact that they had made. Darlene treated Steve like her second son, and Sarah held Sam in the same regard.

“We were supposed to meet.”

“Then, why haven’t you?”

“Things keep getting in the way.”

They were supposed to sit in the same pew at Sunday services. But James apparently developed a terrible cough. And George and Winifred were out of town, having traveled by train to visit one of George’s sisters and to shop for a ball gown for Rebecca. George’s butler relayed this news to Steve as he waited in the third pew from the front.

The next time, Steve missed their first meeting when he had to repair his wagon’s broken wheel.

The next time, Steve had to shoo his turkeys off the roof of the barn and get them back into the pen. That took all morning.

The next time, James had a family event at his aunt Catherine’s. Pity.

The more often they managed to miss each other, the more Steve began to feel relieved, as though they might not have to go through with this farce.

Except that he’d already accepted his proposal. 

George offered to host an engagement party. Steve wrote back an adamant refusal. Steve abhorred wastefulness, and he felt that the wedding was already an exorbitant expense. 

Winifred removed her tiny reading glasses and exclaimed, “My word! Whoever heard of such a thing? He refused! Who refuses an engagement party?”

“Perhaps he is just nervous at large gatherings?”

“Ridiculous,” she told Bucky. “Preposterous! How rude. Oh, Bucky, I hope that when you two marry, you can come to an agreement about what constitutes proper conduct and graciousness.”

“Can we remember for a moment that this wedding was not his idea? Nor was it mine?” Bucky suggested gently.

Winifred wandered off to her garden, grumbling all the way about ungrateful sons and sons-in-law. Bucky felt grateful to his mystery fiancee at this point for sparing him from a party that promised to be stuffy and barely tolerable.

Bucky read the note to himself. He enjoyed the masculine, bold slant of his penmanship. “I find I cannot condone such an expense or participate in such an event when I have the management of my household and farm to occupy me. Please accept my apologies.” He didn’t call them “humble” apologies, or “ardent” apologies, or even “utmost” apologies. Steven didn’t appear to be asking for much forgiveness, or for permission to eschew the festivities. He was simply telling Bucky’s parents, and perhaps Bucky himself, “That’s just too bad.”

Bucky was thoroughly intrigued.

In the meantime, Sam was a godsend.

He stopped by frequently to counsel Steve on etiquette. He took Steve to his barber and trimmed his mop of sandy brown waves into a shape that left his nape bare and flattered the shape of his firm jaw and high forehead. 

“Well, aren’t you pretty as a picture,” Sam teased as the barber showed Steve his reflection in the mirror.

“It’s not terrible.”

“Would you care for a shave, sir?”

“No. Just… no.” Steve wasn’t in the mood for that much change yet. His beard was easier to maintain than a smooth jaw when he worked on the farm. And he was just fond of it. Used to it.

Sam and Steve had “supper practice” and Sam would coach him on using the correct fork and proper spoon, how to work his way in toward the plate with his utensils, how to fold his napkin, how to hold his glass. How not to slurp his soup. So many fussy details.

“You scoop with your fork turned out, so you don’t appear to be eating too hungrily,” Sam reminded him for the tenth time, demonstrating it again the night before.

“How else would I appear, if I’m actually hungry? It’s not like he doesn’t know I work on a farm, Sam.”

Sam dragged his palm down his face and made an aggrieved noise. “Again.”

Sam took him to his fittings, including to the jeweler’s for Steve’s wedding ring, since that was another detail he hadn’t even considered. To the bakery for the wedding cake. Bucky’s family chef, Pietro, and his staff would be creating the banquet following the ceremony.

Steve wondered if his mother was watching from heaven, wondering how things went this far awry after leaving Steve to his own devices.

*

Winifred threw herself full-tilt into arranging the wedding, since Steve’s mother was no longer alive to offer varying opinions or rivalry of any sort. She filled George and Bucky’s ears with questions and opinions about flowers and candles and runners for the aisle and table cloths for the reception. George sighed over the expense, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. Winifred squabbled about appointments for herself and Becca at the seamstress’ shop and the milliner’s, and the cobbler’s. Then she dragged Bucky to fitting after fitting _after fitting_ with the tailor’s.

“Is Steve’s suit finished?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, it is, sir.”

“May I see it?”

“No. No, you may not.”

Bucky’s brows beetled together, but Winifred actually agreed.

“If the groom may not see the bride in her finery until the morning of the wedding, then the same would apply to the groom seeing his _groom_.”

Bucky didn’t even have the energy to argue with his parents at this point. He simply let the tailor and his assistant move him around like a life-sized doll as they hemmed and pinned and tucked. 

Bucky wondered who they were trying to impress while they married him off. For land ownership.

How had his life become so strange? And when had it stopped being his?

*

Bucky went home that evening and retired upstairs to his room, taking a lantern with him. He set it down on the vanity and then lit two more candles on his desk. Bucky found his manuscript, a work in progress that he added on to in bits and spurts. 

The protagonist, Stefan, started the story as a slight, skinny towhead in careworn clothing who loved to draw, and who never backed down from a fight. Bucky lingered over what he had already written for a while, nodding before he dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write.

*

Steve worked himself to the bone, needing the distraction from his upcoming nuptials. Any time that he didn’t spend on the farm, he spent at the market, selling his eggs and produce and bartering with the other vendors. One day, he received a package in the post. He cut open the string and lifted the lid of the box and found several small envelopes filled with cream-colored cards.

Invitations.

None of them were addressed. Steve could invite whomever he wanted to the wedding he didn’t want. How _exciting_.

Steve sighed and stalked back into the house. He fought the urge to upend the contents directly into the fireplace.

Instead, he contemplated the box, and slowly, painstakingly addressed a scant handful of cards to his narrow circle of friends. Their presence might help him endure the day more gracefully.

*

The day arrived, impeccably sunny and mild. Sam convinced Steve to stay with him at his parents’ home so that they could get ready together. He wanted to oversee Steve’s grooming for his special day and stand up for him with both of them cutting a dash.

“Have a nip of brandy. It might help you sleep.”

“So might a sharp enough blow to the head, Sam.”

“Are you planning to be this dramatic when you meet your husband?”

“Ideally, I should have met him by now, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Ideally,” Sam agreed blandly. “This is unorthodox, to say the least.” Sam went to his dresser and picked up the letters that Steve had pulled from his jacket pocket when he arrived. “Perhaps the family thinks that anticipation will sweeten your first encounter.”

“Our first encounter should have led to courtship, not the altar.”

“Sometimes, a first encounter _does_ lead to the altar.”

“Not so directly, Samuel.”

“I wish my choices weren’t so limited.”

“You have the choice not to make it.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, Steve, you do. You could find other work. You could do something else with your artistic talent -”

“I could never sell enough paintings to keep bread on the table or a roof over my head,” Steve snapped.

Sam’s mouth tightened, and he exhaled a ragged breath through his nose.

“Sorry.”

“ _I’m_ sorry, Steve. It shouldn’t have come to this. Your uncle shouldn’t have gambled away your mother’s legacy.”

“I don’t know him. And he doesn’t know me. What if I make him a terrible husband?”

“Steve, you couldn’t!” Then Sam backtracked. “Unless he’s looking for someone suave. Or well groomed. Because in those regards, you _are_ an absolute disaster.”

Steve’s smile nearly cracked his face, and he reached over and pelted Sam with a pillow, making his friend cackle. Sam reached over and picked up another pillow and lammed Steve upside the head with it in umbrage, and Steve feigned injury, flopping onto his back with the impact. 

Sam shook his head. “He will love you, once he knows you. Even if we don’t dust you off and spit-polish you, he will look in here,” and Sam poked Steve in the center of his chest, “and see who you are. He will see ‘Home’ when he looks you in the eye.”

“He may only see hard work and poor judgment when he sees my actual home.”

“Stop that.”

“Sam-”

“Stop it, Steve. We need to get you ready. It’s time to make that man’s heart flutter.”

Steve once again refused a shave, but Sam insisted on letting his dressing valet come in and trim it, neatening it so that the line of his jaw was stronger, hoping it made him look more confident.

Sam strong-armed Steve into the bathtub and washed his hair for him, scrubbing under his fingernails and even having the temerity to peek behind and inside his best friend’s ears. 

“Good Lord, look at your toenails…”

“That’s simply going too far.”

“There’s such a thing as a marital bed, Steven. You’ll dice his poor feet to ribbons on these talons.”

“Will you leave my feet alone?”

“No,” Sam told him flatly.

Sam’s valet eventually managed to wrestle with Steve’s feet and trim the offending nails into shape, and Steve conceded defeat, finally letting them scrub his back, which actually helped to relax him. They hauled him out of the tub before he could get _too_ comfortable, swaddled him in towels, and began the arduous process of dressing him. 

Sam’s valet put the finishing touches on him, combing down a stubborn cowlick and fastening his cufflinks, a sterling silver pair inlaid with tiny pearls, a gift from his groom. 

Sam looked him over. “Goodness gracious, look at you.”

“I don’t want them to,” he admitted. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Can you muster up some excitement instead? Just a little?”

Steve remained silent, throwing up his hands.

“We’re still going to the church. With you dressed in your glad rags.” Sam plucked the top hat with its elegant gray satin ribbon from the hat stand and plopped it onto Steve’s head, giving it a careful press and straightening it for him. “Try to act _glad_.” He gentled his words with a hug, and Sam felt his oldest friend’s arms tighten around him, and he heard Steve’s breath hitch. “All right. It’s all right. It will be over soon. You’ll meet your new groom. He will likely treat you well.”

Oh, how Steve knew the consequences of people in his life who hadn’t.

He stewed over it on the carriage ride to the cathedral. He heard the soft tinkle of piano music from the steps as they climbed them. Steve’s stomach was knotted with frustration and tension.

“You look a little pale. Don’t you dare swoon on me, Rogers.”

But Sam squeezed his hand as he led him inside. The usher greeted them carefully and pulled them inside.

“You may wait in this room, here. Your groom and his family are already inside. Your groom is anxious, just like you are. Look at you.” He smiled. “The two of you will cut a dash.”

That didn’t comfort him. Not one bit. But going into the small room helped. There was a low platform meant for kneeling in prayer, surrounded by a gleaming wooden railing.

“I will stay with you,” Sam promised.

“Oh, no, sir,” the usher corrected Sam. “His family needs to walk him down. His parents, or-”

“They are not here, and I am his family,” Sam insisted.

“That’s… unusual.”

Because this was such a typical, garden variety wedding, Steve didn’t say, even though it lingered temptingly on the tip of his tongue.

“Sam,” Steve suggested hollowly, “can you go out there for a minute and tell me who is out there?”

Sam huffed. “As in, every single person?”

“No, just… if there are any familiar faces.”

Sam gave him a warm smile. “My pleasure, Steve.” Sam turned on his heel and shooed the usher out along with him, closing the door behind him to give Steve some peace.

Sam entered the chapel and glanced around, and he was met with smiles from multiple pews. “Dugan!” he called out as he rushed over to shake Timothy’s hand. He towered over Sam and was built like a bulldog. His mustache was impressive, to say the least, and he still had strawberry red hair cropped in unruly waves. “Logan? Is that you?”

“Who else would it be?” He clapped Sam on the shoulder, and Sam mused to himself, Could none of his friends manage their beards? Or even their sideburns? But he looked well, even dapper in his dark brown suit and gold cravat. “Where is Rogers?”

“Taking a moment.”

The piano music suddenly gained accompaniment by a sweet, clear soprano. Sam looked up and saw a lovely young woman in a pale pink gown dripping in ruffles and flounces and a matching hat that sat atop her gleaming, chestnut brown curls. She was singing a hymn so capably and with rapture. Sam just allowed himself to listen for a moment before he greeted several of his and Steve’s mutual friends. 

“Clint. You clean up nicely.”

“This one made me,” he claimed, nodding to the petite, striking redhead at his side.

“We haven’t had the pleasure, I don’t think.”

“We haven’t. Barton, introduce us, already!”

Sam greeted her display of sass with a smile and extended his hand. He kept his grip soft, and she showed him her dimples to reward him.

“May I have the genuine pleasure of introducing you to Miss Natasha Romanova. Nat,” and Sam was again flummoxed by the familiarity, “this is Samuel Wilson. His father is Reverend Wilson.”

“Oh. Goodness.”

“My father will marry these two to each other, but it was my duty to bring Steven here and to stand up for him.”

“It takes a village to marry a man off, apparently.”

Her tone was droll. Sam’s heart kicked. Then, he realized he didn’t know how deep the friendship ran between Natasha and Clint. Clint didn’t shed any light on the subject with his introduction.

Sam approached the front of the church, and the groom’s eyes automatically swung his way.

_Good Lord_.

He was _breathtaking_. His eyes. His cheekbones. The clever little cleft in his chin. That _physique_. Those soft, deep pink _lips_.

“Goodness gracious,” Sam muttered.

The young man’s brows beetled slightly, but he offered Sam a polite smile. “I beg your pardon?”

“Forgive me… hello! Good morning. I’m Sam. Samuel Wilson. I’m Steve’s… his friend. His oldest friend. We’re like brothers.”

Sam recovered quickly and found himself enjoying the young man’s firm handshake. “Good morning, Sam. It’s nice to meet you, I’m B-”

“James,” Reverend Paul interrupted, “I think we are ready to begin.”

He beckoned to Rebecca and the pianist, who quickly wrapped up the hymn, and Sam decided a better introduction could wait for the reception. He liked him already. His demeanor and grace, his pleasantly deep voice… honestly, Sam was ready to marry him _himself_. And Bucky, despite the situation at hand, actually seemed … eager.

“I’ll be back with someone you would like to meet,” Sam promised, and he strode up the aisle toward the tiny rectory. 

Sam watched the usher greet the last of the guests and show them to their pews, and he paused a moment outside the rectory door. He rapped on it gently.

“Steve?” he called out. “It’s time, brother. Your groom is quite the-” He didn’t wait for Steve to beckon him inside, and Sam’s words evaporated on his lips.

The room was empty. The proud top hat with its gleaming gray ribbon sat on the railing.

“- fashion plate,” Sam finished. His heart sank. “Oh, dear Lord in heaven. _Steve._ Oh, no.” Sam bit his knuckle. This wouldn’t do _at all_.

James wanted what his parents had, but he wanted to do it in his own time, on his own effort. An arranged marriage sounded less than ideal, no matter what the possible benefits. 

Obviously, his groom had similar opinions on the subject.

“Where’s Steven?” The piano music signaling his entry stopped when the assembled guests saw that the second groom wasn’t walking down the white brocade runner. Bucky grew antsy and confused, but he maintained his smile as he waited for Sam to round the corner and come down the aisle with his groom.

Sam returned… emptyhanded.

“James,” he began.

“What is happening? Where is he?” Winifred demanded. High spots of color rose up into her cheeks.

“Where’s Steven?” Rebecca added as she flanked her brother’s side and gently laid her palm against his lower back, lending him quiet support.

“Please tell me he is coming any moment now,” Bucky pleaded softly.

Sam exhaled gustily and shook his head. Bucky saw sorrow and a thousand apologies in those dark eyes. His own stung, and he blinked hard in an attempt to clear them. He had to look away, and his fist clenched at his side.

“Excuse me,” Sam offered, even though he felt like he was fleeing the scene of a crime.

So, he fled.

Paul and Darlene attempted to undo some of the damage. Paul gave a pleasant homily about community and family, expressing his pleasure at seeing so many familiar faces among the assembled guests. Like Sam, he could work a room. The pianist resumed the previous hymn, and Becca got up to sing it again, but with much less enthusiasm than before. George tried to take Bucky aside, but he gently waved him off.

“Father, let me take care of this,” he whispered. “Please.”

He interrupted Becca’s singing again and approached the altar. He stood on the short flight of steps and beckoned to his guests.

“Good morning. I would like to offer my sincerest apologies and thank you for the trouble you took to join us here for our wedding. Except that I regret to inform you that there will be no wedding, after all. It requires that there be two people to join in matrimony. We appear to have subtracted one from the equation. Again, you have my sincerest apologies,” Bucky told them, even though he wasn’t the one at fault.

He felt as though he was, for daring to hope. For going along with his father’s outlandish plan and wishing so ardently that his groom might give him half a chance. Bucky exited the chapel and went into the empty rectory. He closed the door behind himself, removed his hat and pristine white gloves and proceeded to weep himself into a shuddering, sniffling mess. He collapsed against the back of the door and sank down, letting the tears drip down off the tip of his nose. He couldn’t stand the sight of all the shocked expressions, and all of their pity. His heart was broken, even though he hadn’t even had the chance to offer it to Steve yet. Wasn’t that how it usually worked?

He heard Becca’s soft footsteps outside the door and felt the pressure she exerted against it, as though she, too, was leaning against the front side. “Bucky,” she murmured. “Darling brother. Please, don’t be upset.”

“I am. I’m sorry, Becca. I am. I can’t help it. He couldn’t even walk down the aisle to _meet me _.”__

__“That’s his loss.”_ _

__“Now what?” Bucky hiccuped as he mopped at his cheeks with his sleeve cuff, until he remembered his immaculately folded handkerchief._ _

__“Now, he fends for himself, and you resume your bachelorhood.” She said this glumly, and then Bucky realized that he wasn’t the only one losing the future he had already invested himself in._ _

__Becca still wanted to have a Season. The Barnes’ still needed the space in their home that didn’t include their son the bachelor who would serve as a temptation for Becca’s peers for any balls they hosted or attended. But Becca didn’t remind him of any of this._ _

__She only told him, “I love you, big brother.”_ _

__That made him cry harder, cradling his forehead in his palm. When he came up for a breath, his eye was caught by a dark object across the room._ _

__The top hat had been swept from the railing when Bucky shoved open the door seemed to stare back at Bucky. Bucky swiped at his damp cheeks and nose and rose to his feet. He crossed the room and picked it up. The brim was still warm. Bucky lifted it to his nose; it smelled slightly of hair pomade._ _

__Becca let herself in and found him staring down at it, clutching it in his grip._ _

__“Mother and Father are deciding what to do about the reception banquet.”_ _

__“It’s a shame to waste it,” Bucky pointed out. “Pretend it’s your party,” he suggested._ _

__“I will do nothing of the sort,” she huffed, but she joined him and hugged him hard. They stood there for a few minutes, and Bucky accepted her comfort._ _

__*_ _

__

__By the time Steve reached the creek, his shoes were thoroughly scuffed. He ran the entire way, wishing he had arrived at the church in his own wagon, or even on horseback. He knew he owed Sam all the apologies, and George Barnes an explanation._ _

__He would have to back out of the arrangement, and he would lose the farm. Billy would have to look for different work, as would Steve._ _

__He shed the stifling jacket and suffocating cravat and kicked off the shoes, which were never properly broken in and rubbed the balls of his feet the wrong way from the moment he put them on. The shirt and cufflinks fell onto the growing pile of discarded clothes, along with his socks and garters. Steve realized belatedly that he was missing the ridiculous hat. It sat wrong on him, anyway._ _

__Steve waded in the creek up to his knees, letting the currents ripple and rush against his flesh. The sun warmed his bare back, and he tipped his head back, closing his eyes so he could listen to the breeze rattling the branches overhead._ _

__“Steve,” Sam called out to him, breaking his reverie to bits._ _

__Steve turned to him. Sam stood on the bank of the creek, with his hands tucked into the pockets of his crisp trousers. “Thought I’d find you here.”_ _

__His voice wasn’t disappointed. His expression was resigned. Steve felt a tightness in his chest._ _

__“Sam…”_ _

__“Steve…”_ _

__“I just couldn’t do it, Sam. I just… I _couldn’t.”__ _

___“You accepted the proposal.”_ _ _

___“I have to refuse it, now.”_ _ _

___“You could find another way. You could come back with me to the church, they were still there waiting when I left.”_ _ _

___But Sam saw the tears welling up in his eyes, and they slipped down his cheeks, landing like slick diamonds in his sandy beard. Sam cursed under his breath and beckoned to him. “Come up here, come out of there, damn it, Steven!” Steve hauled himself out of the shallow water and joined him on the bank and Sam gathered him close. His fingers scratched gently at Steve’s scalp and he swayed beneath his weight._ _ _

___“Clint was there, and Tim, and Logan,” he informed him. “And a few of our old friends from primary.” Then Sam added, “Even Professor Banner came. He’s such a recluse so much of the time.”_ _ _

___“Oh, no,” Steve sobbed. He never meant for Bruce to make the trip and go to so much trouble, only for Steve not to follow through. His friends witnessed his failures. He clung to Sam, who tutted at him and made soothing noises, rubbing his back._ _ _

___“What are we going to do with you?”_ _ _

___“Let me wallow in my shame.”_ _ _

___“No. I’m talking about that suit, Steve. You don’t just throw silk brocade into the grass. The stains will _never_ come out. Have I taught you _nothing_ by now?”_ _ _


	6. A Gesture of Good Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t do what he says,” Bucky told her.
> 
> “You must!” she told him on a loud whisper. She glanced toward the closed door, worried that the servants might hear their exchange. “You made Father a promise, Bucky.”
> 
> He shook his head. “No,” he told her. “James Buchanan Barnes made Father a promise. ‘Bucky’ didn’t.”
> 
> “Wait… _what?_ Bucky, what on earth…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m starting to have fun with this. Have a dose of deception!

Bucky sat in the study, feet propped on the ottoman, and he quietly turned the top hat over and over in his hands. A week had gone by since the wedding. Or what passed for a wedding before Bucky found himself publicly abandoned. It still stung.

Far worse, however, was the second letter that arrived yesterday.

“What on earth are you doing, Bucky?”

“Thinking.”

“Don’t work too hard at that. I can see the smoke coming out of your ears.” Becca smirked him and reached down and patted him on the head.

“You’re too kind,” he retorted. “Don’t you have anything better to do than pour salt in my wounds?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. And you are going to go do it with me. Father said he is going to the bank, and I can ride with him in the carriage so that I can stop at the confectioner’s.”

“What makes you think I’m in the mood for sweets?”

“Because since when _aren’t_ you?” she teased.

Bucky ducked his face and chuckled, sighing. “Fine, then. Brat. I will go with you.”

“You should. A bit of fresh air and a change of scenery would do you some good. Get your backside out of that chair and get it into a saddle, even, perhaps.”

“My backside is fine right where it is,” he argued.

“It might be even _more_ comfortable behind a desk, while you do some meaningful work,” George suggested as he rounded the corner, holding his bowler hat under his arm. “I was thinking you could come to the office with me next week.”

Bucky recoiled. He stood up quickly from the chair and set the hat on the ottoman. “Are you certain that’s the right place for me, Father? I really don’t have a head for business-”

“You always did just fine in math. Your scores in economics and accounting were impeccable. You might fit right in, James.”

“I don’t have a passion for it, though.”

“Would you have a passion for making _money_?” George inquired. “Keeping a roof over your head all of these years is something I’m rather passionate about.”

“That might be easier to do if you weren’t paying for-”

Bucky stopped himself, clapping his mouth shut, wondering where the intrusive, impertinent thought came from.

George’s brows drew together. “If I wasn’t paying for _what_ , son?”

Bucky turned away from him and picked up Steve’s top hat. He ran his hands over the brim.

“I’ve given him notice,” George informed Bucky. “The bank was lenient with him, and I’m extending that leniency.” George paused. “For a while.”

That snapped Bucky to attention, and he felt himself break out in a rash of sweat. “Father, what do you mean?”

“He will have six months to tend the farm. And if he manages to raise the money to pay off the note, the farm is self-sufficient and turns a profit, then I will sign it over to him. If not, however…” George shrugged. “Then I will evict him.”

Bucky’s mouth worked. “What…”

“The farm is a burden on him, James. Clearly, it is.”

“Yet, you were ready to pay _me_ an income to help him run it?” Bucky folded his arms. “In exchange for _marriage_?” he scoffed. “Was the farm - _his farm_ \- meant to be some sort of- of, of _dowry_?”

“Of course not! What a ridiculous notion!”

“Is it?”

“Don’t be absurd, and mind your tongue, James!”

“Father. Listen to _me_.” Bucky planted his hands on his hips, and George just as adamantly folded his arms over his chest, pulling himself up to his full height. Which… understandably intimidated Bucky, since George was rather _tall_. Bucky felt his face flush all the way down his neck, but pride also leapt into his spine.

“Only if you don’t plan to try to sway my decision or argue with my judgment.” George raised his brows. Bucky opened his mouth, but George added, “Because as I told you, I gave him notice. I’m sending him an additional letter spelling out the terms.”

Bucky turned ashen. “When did you send it?”

“Two days ago.”

“By post?”

“By messenger,” George informed him. 

“ _Father_.”

“It’s Steve’s farm!” Bucky cried. “It’s his! It belongs to his family-”

“His family gambled it away,” George reminded him. “It was supposed to be held in trust, and his uncle failed in that task.”

“So you’re going to take advantage of his mishandling of Steve’s family’s property?”

“No. I saw an opportunity to acquire a property that would benefit _our_ family. And you will still have the opportunity to oversee its growth, and its potential, _but._ ” George put up his index finger sharply. “ _But._ You are not to interfere with his day-to-day handling of the farm. You are not to help him. You are not to give him monetary gifts. You are not to contact him in person or in writing.”

“You won’t show him compassion? He’s already lost everything, Father!”

“He gave up an opportunity, but-” George’s voice rose a notch, then he thought better of it.

“But what, Father?”

“Don’t question me. Don’t question my decision.”

“Father-”

“Don’t, James!”

“Father!”

“ _That’s the last I will hear of this! He had his chance! And he humiliated us_!”

Bucky’s eyes sparked. He turned his eyes down to the floor. Down to his hard leather shoes, exquisite, expensive. Polished to an impeccable gleam. If he scuffed them, he could throw them out. Buy a new pair, custom-fit. “ _Us,_ Father?”

George realized in that moment that he went too far. “James-”

“So. That’s what this is really about. Dignity.”

“James Buchanan Barnes.” George’s voice grew soft, but it shook with emotion. “Listen to me. Closely. Sincerely.” George took Bucky’s shoulders in his firm, warm grip. “Promise me that you will obey my wishes.”

Bucky’s jaw tilted itself at a mulish angle, but his father wouldn’t be swayed by it or by the hurt look in his son’s soft gray eyes.

“Swear to me. I, James Buchanan Barnes, promise that I will not contact, assist, or engage Steven Rogers in any manner whatsoever.”

After a long pause, Bucky swallowed and gave his father a stiff smile. “I. James Buchanan… Barnes… promise that I will not contact, assist or engage Steven Rogers in any manner whatsoever.”

George gently patted his cheek, then kissed his temple. “I’m sorry, but this must be done. Let’s be done with this unpleasant business.”

Becca watched them, aghast but silent. Her hands flew up and covered her lips. She quietly backed away, not wanting to interfere when her father was so determined that he was right, and when her brother was fighting to hold his composure. 

Her heart broke for him.

George, too, backed away, releasing him. “The carriage is waiting out front. This shouldn’t take long. Your sister wanted to stop at the confectioner’s.”

It was on the tip of Becca’s tongue to insist that she didn’t have an appetite, but as soon as she opened her mouth, she saw Bucky give her a pointed look. Her brow quirked, but she turned to her father and gave him an even smile.

“Don’t dither, Becca. Come along, now, if you wish to go.”

“Yes, Father, of course.”

When Bucky preceded her out of the study, she told George, “Father, let me get my jacket, it’s quite chilly out.”

“Do hurry.”

So of _course_ she followed Bucky upstairs, dashing up after him as quickly as her full skirts would allow.

“Bucky!” she hissed as soon as they reached the landing. “I’m so sorry. Father, he… he couldn’t mean-”

“Oh, but he could,” Bucky scoffed. He gripped his nape, tugging on the back of his hair.

“He wants what’s best for you. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, but I know this isn’t what you want by far!”

“I don’t know what I want, anymore. I don’t know whether to even call this ‘freedom.’ Am I truly free? He wanted me to marry Steve. Now, he wants me to have no contact with him at all. He _forbids_ it. Am I a _child_?”

“No.”

She followed him into his room instead of collecting her coat. “So.” She closed the door after herself and sat on the edge of the bed. “What will you do?”

“That letter will destroy him.”

“Maybe he already has it. He has to. Father sent it by messenger.”

“He’s going to feel as though his world has come to an end, Becca.”

“Bucky,” Becca told him, steeling herself for his reaction, “he _hurt_ you. What he did was a slap in the face.”

“For Father?”

“No. For _you_.” Becca didn’t employ one shred of George’s restraint, giving words to the resentment in his heart. “I watched you when you came home. When you went out to the stable.”

Bucky glared at her and drew himself up, then turned from her. He walked toward the window, leaning his forehead on the cool glass pane. Then, his fist slammed against the frame, startling her.

“Don’t,” he pleaded. His voice was quiet. Wounded. “Please, Becca, don’t.”

What was one tear. What were a thousand of them.

“I can’t do what he says,” Bucky told her.

“You must!” she told him on a loud whisper. She glanced toward the closed door, worried that the servants might hear their exchange. “You made Father a promise, Bucky.”

He shook his head. “No,” he told her. “James Buchanan Barnes made Father a promise. ‘Bucky’ didn’t.”

“Wait… _what?_ Bucky, what on earth…?”

“He hasn’t even met me, Becca. We have not even made direct contact yet. He only knows my name by word of mouth, so far. Father has dealt with him in writing. He received my notes asking him for a meeting before the wedding.”

“For all the good that did.”

“He’s a busy man. After all, he owns a farm.”

“Father owns the farm, big brother.”

“For now,” Bucky said.

An idea bloomed, taking root and sending up fragile tendrils and bringing with it a frisson of excitement.

It was just so insane that it _might work_.

*

George waited in the carriage, making a low, sputtering sound of annoyance. “Where is that daughter of mine?” He remembered himself saying very clearly, _Don’t dither, Becca. Come along, now, if you wish to go._ George wondered what part of that request grew lost in translation.

But moments later, before he could tell his driver, Edgar, to make haste and that he would be traveling alone, Becca rushed out of the house, bonnet ribbons fluttering and clutching her reticule. Her expression was sheepish.

“May we leave now, daughter of mine?” George asked dryly as she climbed inside.

She flushed. “Apologies, Papa, but Bucky is on his way.”

That surprised George. “I wasn’t sure he wished to accompany me.” Not “accompany us.” Becca caught her father’s underlying intent and brushed it off.

“When have you ever known Bucky to stay behind when sweets were involved? He wanted to go with me to the confectioner’s.”

George huffed and rolled his eyes, but he felt an odd sense of relief when his oldest child exited the house and joined them in the carriage. His eyes were bright and clear, and his expression was calm, which gave George pause.

“May we go into town, now? My letter is burning a hole in my pocket. I would like to send it in the post,” George told him.

“Proceed, Father,” Bucky agreed easily as he settled into the seat opposite his father and Becca. Becca raised her brows at him, but Bucky merely gave her a calm smile.

The day was clear and bright. Bucky hoped that Steve was enjoying the sunshine and mild temperature, knowing that he was working outside and was no doubt very, very busy. It hit Bucky in that moment that his own afternoon would entail more leisurely pursuits. A trip to the confectioner’s. A stroll with his younger sister. A carriage ride with the warm, light breeze blowing in through the windows. Casual conversations with shop clerks. Perhaps another conversation with Father about his future, now that he was no longer betrothed.

Then again, that remained to be seen. 

Didn’t it.

Becca chattered away, in an attempt to chase away the previous tension and, perhaps, Bucky thought, just to hear herself talk. He found that he didn’t mind. They reached town slowly, and he tapped his fingers on his knee absently, not realizing that he was emulating his father’s own habit. Becca huffed slightly when she noticed it but said nothing.

Men. They could be so stubborn, sometimes.

Edgar stopped the carriage and the Barneses stepped out onto the street. Becca suddenly smiled and called out, “Ororo! ORORO! Hello, dear!” Bucky saw her speaking to the striking young woman who suddenly sparked his memory, a brief one from his childhood.

“She went to school with us?”

“Yes, silly! You remember her! She was friends with Emma. Slightly.” Rebecca chuckled. “They claimed to be the dearest friends, but then they would argue like cats. Oh, it would be lovely to chat with her again.”

“Go,” he suggested. “I will go with Father to send the letter.”

George looked taken aback. “You can go with your sister. You should escort her-”

“I won’t accompany her and interrupt her time for gossiping with her friend,” Bucky argued. “She hardly needs a chaperone for a trip to the sweet shop.”

Becca glanced back at George, who impatiently waved her off, and she hurried to meet Ororo, who smiled and welcomed Becca with open arms. She was tall, curvaceous and stately in her day gown of deep, amethyst purple and a hat trimmed with silk flowers. Bucky returned her brief wave, and the two young women walked off toward Clint’s sweet shop, arm in arm.

George wanted to argue back that _oh, yes, she did,_ but he thought better of it. “Suit yourself. Step lively, now.” George strode down the street, and Bucky fell into step beside him, biting his lip. Step lively, indeed. They waded through the throngs of townsfolk, breathing in the scents of savory foods sold at vendors’ carts. Bucky found himself caught up in another fleeting childhood memory of walking like this with George when he was younger, smaller, clinging to his father’s hand as passerby smiled at the likeness they shared. _The lad is your miniature,_ they would tell Mr. Barnes. _Chip off the old block._ And Bucky would feel himself warm to it, while George puffed up with pride.

Bucky felt the invisible cloak of awkwardness that settled over him since the argument in the study. It was off-putting to wonder if his father was still proud of him. Even as they walked down the street, it felt as though George was trying to keep one to two steps ahead of him. It chafed him.

They entered the post office and stood in the short line, and Bucky silently counted to five, giving himself the chance to muster his nerve.

Heaven must have been listening to his prayer. Bucky had merely been toying with the idea of lifting - borrowing - the letter from his father’s jacket pocket, but a different opportunity presented itself. 

“Thomas Logan?” George called out to a large, burly man with unruly dark hair and flinty brown eyes. “Is that you?”

The man turned around from where he stood at the telegram desk. “As I live and breathe, you old rascal! It is you, Barnes!” He rushed forward and had the tall, broad-shouldered blond who shared his craggy-featured looks hold his place in line. “I remember when you left town all those years ago! Is this your son? Johnny, was it?”

“No, no. James.”

“Chip off the old block. Bet his name shows up on every dance card in the room,” Thomas mused as he raked his eyes over Bucky. “Wish my Victor here would take a page out of your son’s book. He could use a little polish, but the ladies don’t exactly lower their eyes around him, eh? Heh!” As if on cue, Victor grunted and poked the tip of his finger into his nostril and gave it a hearty scratch. Bucky watched him in repulsed amusement as Victor turned away slightly and gave the rear of his trousers a slight tug where they had rode up between his buttocks; Bucky’s brows flew up into his hairline. Victor gave him an accusing look when he caught him staring, and Bucky cleared his throat and smiled before looking away.

Thomas and George began to catch up on old times, much to the annoyance of the onlookers who had to skirt around them to find their place in line. An idea bloomed in Bucky’s head as he watched his father absently remove the letter from his pocket. His thumb stroked it thoughtfully, as though the letter was talking to him. _Mail me so we can depart from his odious company. I’m begging you._

_Soon_ , George’s thumb silently promised.

“...and the missus has been getting on in years, but she’s still curvy enough to catch my eye! She’s never shied away from spreading the dripping on thick, if you know what I mean!”

“You’re a lucky man. Lovely wife, big, strapping son…” George offered kindly.

“But the old gout’s been flaring up something fierce,” Thomas informed him, and George smothered a sigh.

“Er, Father, why don’t I…?” Bucky leaned over briefly, motioning to the letter.

“Nonsense, James, I can take care of it,” George insisted as he clutched it to his chest.

_Damn it!_

George and Thomas continued to dither about more mundane subjects and Thomas’ various foibles. George nodded like a bird struggling with a worm in the ground, constantly clearing his throat and biting back half-formed excuses to leave.

“...have you heard from that son-in-law of yours? I heard the news. Quite a shame. Guess he isn’t your son-in-law after all, is he? That Rogers chap?”

“Fortunately _not_.”

“There, there, Georgie. No hard feelings. The right one will come along any minute for your boy, won’t they?”

“Perhaps they will, in due time.”

“You make it sound like he’ll be a bachelor forever! HA!”

No, Bucky mused. But they would all be old and gray before Thomas finished giving his unasked for opinion. The minutes dragged on, and Bucky was aware of every nuisance he could name, from his shoes pinching his toes to the ticking of the clock on the wall, which seemed to grow louder every second.

“I seem to recall you had a little girl, as well.”

“She’s always going to be my little girl,” George agreed. “Even when she has her first Season.”

“Is that happening this year?” Thomas asked thoughtfully. “Do you hear that, son? George’s daughter is coming into society! Isn’t that wonderful!”

Victor’s smile resembled a crocodile’s. Bucky responded with a glare that made him recoil slightly. Thomas seemed nonplussed.

Then, Bucky remembered his previous goal. “Here, Father. Let me handle that so you two can enjoy your chat.” Bucky managed to prize the letter from his father’s fingers, abandoning him to the conversation he was trying to escape. George’s eyes pleaded with Bucky for a moment, but Bucky managed to dash to the counter, ignoring the shocked yelp of the woman he inadvertently cut in front of. George cursed under his breath, and Thomas clapped him on the shoulder.

“So young and impulsive, aren’t they?”

“He’s been like that ever since he returned from university,” George decided. “He has… strong opinions about things. But… yes. Impulsive. That description suits James rather well.” He turned his back on his son, so he didn’t see the exchange taking place at the counter.

Bucky spoke to the young man through the barred window. “Good afternoon. I have a letter I would like to mail,” Bucky informed him. 

With that, he reached into his jacket and tucked his father’s letter into the waistband of his trousers and pulled the flap of his waistcoat over it. The clerk looked confused.

“Er, that one, sir?”

“No. This one.”

Bucky pulled out a second one from his trouser pocket and handed it over. The envelope was the same cream-colored stationery that George used, complete with an almost identical green wax seal. This, too, was addressed to one Steven Rogers. Bucky penned the note quickly and then dashed into George’s study while Becca “dithered” over getting ready, choosing just the right reticule and gloves, painstakingly pinning her hat, straightening her fichu, and arranging her curls just so before meeting her father in the carriage. She stopped by the study, saw Bucky carefully tucking the note into the envelope, and hissed at him, “Hurry UP!” Bucky fumbled with the book of matches, cursed as the match fought his attempt to light it, and finally managed to spark a tiny flame and light the green candle. He dropped a tidy pool of wax onto the back of the envelope flap and neatly pressed the brass stamper into it, blowing on it to cool it.

“Stall him another minute,” Bucky insisted, and Becca rolled her eyes.

“Just a minute more, or he will leave without either of us,” she told him.

Bucky now slid the envelope through the window and completed the transaction, purchasing postage and accepting the clerk’s promise that the letter would arrive by the end of the week. George struggled on his end to draw the conversation to a close.

Victor eventually spared him. “Father, we need to go.” He tapped his pocket watch impatiently. “We’re due at the barber’s.”

Rather overdue, Bucky wished he could tell him. Both men had thick, unruly waves that hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in several months. Victor had impressive sideburns that made him look rather like an orangutan. 

Thomas decided to show George mercy. “We will really need to catch up some other time, then.”

“Of course!”

“Name a day,” Thomas demanded.

George wilted.

Bucky left the counter and decided to do his father a favor. “Becca will dither all day with Miss Munroe, Father, and she will be late for her fitting.”

“You know how young ladies are,” George agreed. “I must go and collect my daughter.”

“Perhaps you could make an introduction between her and my Victor,” Thomas suggested eagerly.

“Perhaps some other time,” George insisted. “We really must go. But, it was refreshing to see you again, Thomas. Do take care of yourself and enjoy this fine afternoon.”

“Er. Right. Good day, then…”

George grabbed Bucky’s elbow and hauled him along after him as though he was seven years old again, and Bucky barely squelched the urge to laugh.

*

Bucky’s heart was still pounding when he reached the sweet shop. Clint was holding court at the counter, describing his new variety of truffles.

“This one is lovely, it’s white chocolate with a bit of orange brandy - oh, look who it is!” he cried, smiling as he stepped out from behind the counter and gave Bucky another of his shoulder-bouncing handshakes. “I’ve talked your sister into trying one of each of my new flavors!”

“And I’m getting a box of each.”

“Nonsense, that’s too many sweets,” George argued, but Becca shook her head and reached into the first box, plucking up one of the truffles.

“This one’s apricot filled.” 

George hummed as she crammed it into his mouth. “Hmm. Mmmmm. Mm-hmmm. All right. Perhaps one box-”

“Nonsense, Papa!”

“One mustn’t be profligate or indulge in idle spending.”

“It’s not idle, Papa. I’m supporting a lovely friend’s business.”

“Awwwwwww.” Clint was practically purring beneath her praise. 

“I’ll take a box of the dark chocolate ones, if those also come with apricot,” Bucky asked hopefully.

“They certainly do. It would be my genuine pleasure, Mr. Barnes.” Clint winked at him and started packing up another box of candy while George merely sighed.

“Don’t spoil your suppers,” he warned them, as though they were merely five.

George browsed some of the goods at the front of the shop, while Bucky lingered at the back counter. Becca continued to chat with Ororo, who Bucky noticed belatedly, and she nodded to him, giving him a dimpled smile.

“So,” Clint mentioned casually, “I wasn’t expecting you to still be a bachelor the next time I saw you?”

“You were at the church that morning. You could expect nothing else, after that.” Bucky had wondered about that when he took his place at the altar, wondering at the time if Becca had invited him.

Clint winced. “Sorry.”

“So am I. I just wish…” Bucky let his voice trail off.

“Never thought Rogers would have gotten cold feet,” Clint mused.

A tiny divot appeared between Bucky’s brows. “You know him?”

Clint beamed. “Sure! My mother always went to the apothecary shop for Sarah Rogers’ remedies. Little Stevie Rogers always played with me when we were in school.”

Bucky’s memory itched again, but he gave Clint a polite smile.

“I don’t know many of his friends,” Bucky admitted, realizing at the moment that he now only knew all of _one_. Then, he corrected himself. _Two_. He’d met Sam Wilson, the vicar’s son and unwitting bearer of bad news.

“So, you two had a short engagement, then?”

“It’s complicated,” Bucky offered. 

“I’m begging your pardon for sounding so bold, but… you seem… nice?” Clint told him. “It’s just… from what I know of Steve, and he’s been my friend for the longest time, you just seem like the person who he would enjoying being with. And the two of you were _engaged_ , so…” Clint let his voice trail off. “I guess I can’t see why you two wouldn’t make a good match, is all.” He motioned to Becca and Ororo. “Your sister is an absolute ray of sunshine. I’m tickled pink to call her my friend.”

“Becca? That insufferable twerp?” Bucky raised his voice when he said it, and Clint exchanged grins with him as Becca rose to the bait, mouth gaping, and she stomped over toward him with her folded fan raised to clout him.

“Bucket! You are the most terrible big brother! Do you hear him slandering my character, Papa?”

“Good heavens, will you two stop that?” George sighed. “Do you really need to carry on so in public? Can I not have one peaceful excursion today?”

Becca was still brandishing her fan, and Bucky was using Clint as a shield. Clint dissolved into good-natured cackles and waved her off while Bucky ducked behind his taller friend’s shoulder.

“Come out from behind him, you coward!”

“Only if you put that thing down…”

Clint managed to escape, and Becca managed to swat Bucky once, but George caught the fan on the backswing and told her “Straighten up!” in clipped tones. Becca drew herself up and backed off, but Bucky took that opportunity to stick his thumbs in his ears, waggle his fingers and stick out his tongue, making the most horrendous jeer from behind George’s back. Without so much as a backward glance, George reached back and swatted Bucky upside the head.

“That’s enough of that. _Honestly_.”

Clint meekly wrapped up the boxes for them and slid them across the counter. Bucky and Becca continued to make faces at each other behind George’s back, and Clint smothered his chuckles in his apron, his cheeks turning a bright pink. George turned to face him, and he immediately straightened up.

“Have a lovely afternoon, you three!”

“Ta-ta!” Becca called out, blowing him kisses that Clint pretended to catch. Not to be outdone, Bucky threw him kisses too, and that sent Clint cackling again.

George was so _done_.


	7. Let Me Spell It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve receives two letters. The first one dashes his hopes.
> 
> The second one stokes the fires of curiosity in his chest.
> 
> “That.. that was a pig in his arms.”
> 
> “Too big for a turkey,” Billy agreed. “We’ve got some of those, too, but it’s the sheer devil trying to keep them off the roof.”
> 
> Bucky wondered what on earth he’d managed to stumble into, when he heard the sow squealing loudly and Steve’s less than dignified curses and pleas.
> 
> The afternoon would prove interesting, to say the very _least._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So, the last chapter happened. I rarely write a story without posting it a chapter at a time, but then finishing it drags on for MONTHS, and… no. We don’t want that. And I’m the worst kind of feedback hound. But I’m enjoying writing this, anyway.
> 
> “Previously, on the last episode of ‘Butter Wouldn’t Melt in His Mouth…’”

Steve scrubbed his hand over his beard and sat back on the kitchen stool, feeling resignation and cold dread wash over him. He dropped George Barnes’ letter back onto the table beside the envelope with its broken, green wax seal. “Damn it to hell,” he muttered. He got up and yanked his cap off his head, throwing it across the room with a cry. He stalked over to the doorway and pounded his fist on the frame, as though it was the source of the world’s ills.

He was about to lose everything. The farm, the house, the animals, every stick of furniture… he would have to sell everything that his uncle didn’t deed to the bank just to get by. Billy’s severance pay would be a mere pittance compared to what he deserved.

Steve resented his uncle for losing the farm and his irresponsible habits. He resented Alexander Pierce for his stringent terms on the payment of the mortgage and his eagerness to sell his home to another buyer. He resented George Barnes and his outrageous, ridiculous arrangement that Steve still couldn’t regret backing out of, when it sounded too good to be true.

What kind of man dangled a man’s home like a carrot in front of him as a means of bribing him to marry his son? It defied all reason, and Steve still wondered how he had been so desperate to even consider it. New resolve bloomed in his chest, however, when he saw the last few paragraphs of the letter.

_I realize that you find yourself alone in the world, now that your mother has passed away, Steven, and you have my sympathies. You are now a man without a family, and I consider family important. And a marriage between two hardworking, intelligent individuals, such as yourself and my son, James, is the cornerstone of our society, and of a happy life. I find myself blessed enough to be married to my dearest, lovely wife, Winifred. When you declined my offer in the most undignified, cowardly manner by refusing to show up for your wedding vows, you showed me that you were unwilling to enter may family, or create a new family bond with James, and you revealed your true character to me. I have no choice but to respect your decision at this time._

_I still wish to add your farm to my holdings, and I have purchased the deed from Alexander Pierce. I am a lenient man in personal dealings, and occasionally, I am accommodating in my business dealings as well. I have chosen to extend your tenancy in your home and your management of the farm for the next six months. Not one day more. Not one day less. At this time, if the farm has turned a profit under your capable hands - I see that you are barely subsisting at the time of this communication - then I will give you the opportunity to buy back the deed. If you carry on as you have up until now, and the farm continues to fail to live up to its profitable potential, or if it lands in the red, then I will resume final ownership and management, and you will forfeit the property in full._

_In the meantime, rest assured that I no longer consider a match between yourself and my son James a prudent arrangement, and I forbid the two of you from having contact with each other, whether it is regarding business or personal matters. I do not wish for you to attempt to meet with him, write to him, or communicate through any messengers or intermediaries. I hope that I have made myself clear on that matter._

_You have squandered a promising and generous opportunity, that I know you will live to regret._

_Godspeed,_

_George Barnes_

He didn’t even know how to tell Billy about this change in his circumstances, and he dreaded it. If Steve was flexible in how he read George’s intent from the letter, he was giving him a _chance_ , one that he didn’t think Steve deserved. It was like asking Steve to dance a slow and graceful waltz to the gallows. Six months. They seemed like minutes. Six months to turn a profit, when he had barely been eking out a living. How would he manage to pull it off?

Steve already worked from sunrise to sunset. He ran the farm, did small favors and other paid chores for his neighbors to circulate his skills by word of mouth, and he created artwork by commission. He was already spent, and there were never enough hours in his day already, and now, George Barnes was asking him to defy time itself, and his already lowly station, by turning the farm around. He glanced at the table again. At the stack of bills and his ledger whose column at the end was slipping once again into the red. Steve needed to purchase feed for his animals and seeds to plant his crops. His output was never enough for the cost of running the farm, he couldn’t hire enough hands to help him, he needed food and kerosene and materials to patch the roof and repair the floor, and, and…

Steve wondered why he couldn’t simply be the kind of man to compromise his principles and take the easy way out. Marry some stuffy, comfortably wealthy man’s son. Live like a rich toff. Sure. Steve huffed a bitter laugh.

Was that all that marriage was for? Sarah didn’t marry Joseph for money. His parents felt passion for one another and shared trust, honesty, and laughter, and if Steven was to marry, those were the reasons for him to set foot in the church and say his vows. Not a monthly income. Not the guarantee of the property that should have passed into his hands as his _inheritance_ in the first place. Blast his uncle’s carelessness and profligate, carousing nature.

Steve Rogers worked for every penny, privilege and pleasure, even though the latter were few and far in-between. And he would marry in his own good time, a person of his own _choice_ , without coercion or bribes. And George Barnes? Well… they hardly ran in the same circles. Steve wasn’t likely to encounter him much if he ended up leaving the town for greener pastures. Or _any_ pastures that he didn’t have to fight anyone over or marry someone in order to possess. 

Billy found him hacking away at the firewood pile, carefully stacking it into a neat cord along the side of the house. He automatically helped him stack and brought over each new section of log. “Look at you,” he teased. “You’re going at it like a man possessed. What’s gotten into you, Steve?”

“Just making haste while the sun shines,” Steve offered. “If we can get this done quickly enough, we’ll have time to get the milking done and pick the apples.”

Billy shrugged and fell into the rhythm of Steve’s work, and they kept the logs moving onto the block for Steve to chop. They finished up within the hour, and Steve moved along to the barn without preamble or stopping to refresh himself.

“Take a minute and drink something!” Billy nagged as he waved the tin cup at Steve that he dipped into the wooden pail on the edge of the water pump.

“I’m fine,” Steve insisted, even though his shirt was nearly transparent with sweat. Billy still chased him with the water cup and made him drink from it. Steve downed it impatiently, shoved the cup back into his palm, and headed for the cow stalls. Billy sighed gustily and rolled his eyes behind him. He jogged into the house briefly and came back with two thick slices of Steve’s day-old bread spread thickly with jam.

“Here. Can’t have you falling down on the job.”

“I don’t have time for dithering,” Steve told him, but he took a large, grudging bite and nodded his thanks.

“Am I missing something?” Billy asked after a few minutes, chewing on his breakfast as he gathered up his stool and a pail. 

“Like what?”

“Like, your husband?” 

Billy missed the wedding fiasco, as he and his brother Tommy had visited their uncle in a neighboring town that day, and he wasn’t present to witness Steve’s hasty judgment and subsequent escape.

Steve paused mid-stream in his tug of the cow’s udder, and she lowed at him imperiously to continue. Steve closed his eyes and made a frustrated noise.

“Oh.” Billy paused. “Did something go wrong?”

“We haven’t talked about this,” Steve began.

“About… what?”

“There is no husband. And, soon…” Steve paused this time.

“Soon…?”

“There will be no farm.”

Billy dropped the pail from nerveless fingers and staggered back, face pale. He stumbled back against the wall and cradled his temples in his hand. Steve stood up and rushed to his side. “Billy-”

“Damn it, Steve! Damn it! WHY?!”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t do it-”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Billy snapped. “Of course, of course…” Billy laughed, and it was a ragged, hysterical sound tinged with outrage and disbelief. “Of _course_. Why would I expect any different?”

“What he was asking was insanity, Billy!” Steve cried, throwing up his hands.

“Insanity and the promise of _security_ ,” Billy corrected him.

“Was it secure? Could such a thing be secure? Marrying for money? For property? What if it was a terrible match? What if he’s truly a terrible man, and his son is… I don’t know.”

“His son is _rich_. You would have the farm and someone staring back at you over the breakfast table. Maybe someone to read you bedtime stories at night,” he scoffed as tears rolled down his cheeks. He angrily dashed them away.

Steve felt his insides twist. “You think this is fine? Are you really so disappointed in me for my choice?”

“No, damn it! I’m just so damned confused how this became a choice in the first place! First your uncle, then the bank, and then… _this._ ” Billy pulled away from the wall and Steve’s hand as he reached for him. “Blast it all. Who’s pulling the strings and controlling our lives?”

“I don’t know.” Steve’s eyes stung and his voice softened. “I don’t, and I’m sorry, and… I don’t know what else to say.”

“When do you have to give it up? When do I have to find somewhere else to go?”

“Not for six months, at least! That gives you at least a little time to find somewhere else to work, or you can now if something comes up, I can get by-”

“Like hell,” Billy told him flatly. “No, Steve. I’m not running out on you to run this whole place by yourself. Don’t be _daft_. Always the martyr. Always the good little soldier, fighting the good fight.”

Steve smiled through the tears sparking in his eyes before he dashed them away. He planted his hands on his hips. “Am I really that terrible?”

“No, or I would have run far away a long time ago. You’re really that ridiculous, however. And stubborn. And hardheaded as Bertie over there,” he said, nodding to one of Steve’s favorite goats in the pen.

“Six months is all I have to offer.”

“Or what?”

“Or I lose the farm.” Steve sighed and tugged on the hair at his nape. “Here’s the thing. He’s giving us a chance.”

“A chance.”

“The thinnest possible sliver of one. We need to make the farm turn a neat profit by then. If it does, he will reconsider evicting me and sign over the deed.”

“You don’t have any relatives other than your uncle Mortimer who could help?” Billy asked sullenly.

“I have no one.”

Billy looked like he would leave the barn for a moment, but then he doubled back and caught Steve in a rough hug. Steve’s laugh was rusty, not quite a sob as he held onto him just as tightly.

“Stubborn jackass,” Billy told him. “You know I’m in this with you. Every step of the way, Rogers.”

“I always wonder why you weren’t finished with me a long time ago.”

“Find better things to wonder about. Like, if his son likes brunets,” he joked as he doffed his cap and scrubbed his hand through his short, soft, dark curls. Steve chuckled and shook his head.

“Find out for yourself. Write him a letter. See if he offers you a farm. That might be a greater miracle than getting this place to turn a profit with just the two of us.”

Billy gave him a look. “What if you skimped on my pay for a while, Steve, what if-”

“No. I won’t hear of it. I only give you a pittance as it is, anyway, and you need every penny, Billy. You need that money to help your brother through school.” Steve growled under his breath. “I should be paying you five times as much.”

“You should be living more comfortably than this, Steve. No one should have to work as hard as you do every minute of every day. You can’t keep that up forever.”

“No. And I’m only going to have to work harder than ever before to turn a profit, or we lose everything.”

Billy didn’t miss that he said “we.” That cemented his decision.

“Let me know what I can do. How I can even help.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the henhouse and the pasture. “All of this? This is a lot.”

“All I can do is get out of bed and get to work. No one else will do it for me.” Steve went back to his milking. “I honestly wonder if my groom even knows anything about running a farm.”

“I wish I could give you a magical potion and just wave my hand and conjure you up all the help you need, or just the one perfect person who would come along and make any of this easier for you, Steve.”

“Well, until you can do that, Billy, go ahead and help me with the milking.”

They worked long and hard into the afternoon before they ate again, and by the time the sun set, Steve had cream rendered and set aside for his butter churn and bushels of apples loaded in his wagon for sale the next day. So many other tasks yawned ahead of him for the next day, but at least he didn’t have to do this completely alone.

*

Two days later, Bucky rode down the pebbly gravel road in the rickety wagon that he managed to purchase from Clint, who looked pleased as punch that Bucky paid him enough for it to buy an even nicer one, and he asked Bucky why he merely didn’t get a new one himself.

“This one will do just fine.”

“Are you sure? I mean… Bucky, I guess…” Clint paused. “You’re always so dapper. People expect certain things from a man of your station. Someone dressed like you doesn’t ride around in a wagon like this.”

“Honestly?” Bucky glanced around the street furtively and leaned in to Clint. “I don’t want to ride in a carriage with my father’s insignia. And this wagon is mine, now. Not his. It’s good to have something of my own.”

Clint beamed. “Of course. And you’re absolutely right. I remember how I felt when I opened my shop’s doors.”

“Proud, as you should be.”

“Ecstatic. Excited. Well. You can just imagine how it felt, Bucky.”

Bucky clapped Clint on the shoulder and gave it a fond squeeze. “No one deserves it as much as you do.”

“Would you like to try my new toffees?”

“Is the sky blue? Lead the way.”

*

Two days prior, Bucky had an epiphany. And an argument. 

Bucky went to George’s study and planted himself on the ottoman, staring at his father until he glanced back at him over the edge of his book.

“What can I do for you, son?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Bucky laced his fingers together and leaned forward expectantly. “I know your previous arrangement didn’t turn out the way that you’d hoped.”

“If you mean the wedding that was missing a groom, then no, it didn’t. Thank you for reminding me, James. Here’s my wound, if you would care to pour lemon juice into it.” George held out his wrist and raised his brows at his son. Bucky shook his head and suppressed a laugh.

“I really don’t care to at all. I just have a suggestion.”

“All right.” George closed the book and laid it on his lap. “I’m listening.”

“You wanted me to marry, so that I could run my own household and so that you wouldn’t have the ‘distraction’ of your bachelor son as a detriment to hosting Becca’s friends here during her Season.”

“That didn’t quite pan out.”

“No. However, I think you were right about one thing. It might be best if I move out of the house, even if I remain a bachelor.”

George straightened up in his seat and leaned forward. “James. Don’t be too hasty. This is something that can wait for a little while, now, while we decide how best to address your future, and your-”

“I am addressing my future, Father. I wish to write. I love literature and creating prose, and I want to be an author.”

George sat back and laughed, a sonorous sound in the silence of his study. He held up his novel and waved it at Bucky, who felt his cheeks flush. “An author? Preposterous! There are so many other things you can do? Economics? Market futures? Science? Accounting?”

“I wish to be a writer, Father?”

“Pretty words?” George scoffed. “You plan to sit down with your pen and write pretty words on the page?”

“That novel wasn’t cheap, Father.”

“I assure you, my dear son, the man who wrote this book only earned a pittance from it.”

“The man who wrote that book has written more than one, Father. And he will continue to receive earnings from that book every time someone buys a copy of it to enjoy while smoking their afternoon pipe. Authors don’t just write for the love of it, Father. They are businessmen. They thrive from exposure.”

“So do plants, son. And so do farmers. That’s why I purchase so many farms and that is exactly how I sell so much seed.”

Bucky sighed. He’d heard this lecture before.

“You don’t know the value of hard work.”

“Yet, you were willing to risk your investment on my lack of knowledge, Father. Honestly.” Bucky gave him a sardonic look, which George attempted to wave off. “You wanted me to manage the day to day operation and running of a farm and the household accounts?”

“Look at all of this, son.” George set down the book and rose from his chair and took Bucky by the arm. He tugged him over to the window to look out over the grounds, at the perfectly manicured hedges and beds of flowers, the circular gravel drive, the immaculate lawn used for the family’s spring and summertime croquet and badminton games. “Hard work and a cunning mind. And an ability to focus on the important things. That is what gave me all of this, in order for me to give it to you. Writing is a pastime. Feel free to jot things down in your leisure, but I expect you to come work for me, regardless of your marital status.”

“Work for you? In an office?” Bucky shook his head. “No. No, Father. You think I don’t know the value of hard work. Let’s put that to the test.”

George’s eyebrows rose. He planted his hands on his hips, but Bucky shrugged and smiled.

“I don’t want to work in your office, Father. I want to go out to your farms. I want to see how they run. I want to learn about them from the ground up. From seedling to stalk.”

George laughed. His soft chuckle gradually grew into a throaty guffaw. He shook his pointed finger at Bucky and gave him a knowing look. “You almost had me fooled.”

“I’m not joking. I want to do it. You can’t have me sitting sedately behind a desk, expecting to manage things when I don’t know what happens at the source of our income. Seems ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“You would go out and work like a common field hand?”

“No. Like an honest farmer who lives off his harvest. And I would see what contributes to your success, Father. You are successful. And you said it is through hard work. But it isn’t just through _your_ hard work.”

George huffed. Then, he shrugged.

“All right. Go ahead. Educate yourself, if, as you say, you are willing to learn about the family business from the bottom up, even though I offered you a place _at the top, with a comfortable status and income._ ”

“As part and parcel of a marriage that the groom you chose for me refused outright,” Bucky reminded him.

George turned his back on him and grumbled his way over to the side table and the waiting bottle of brandy. He poured himself a crystal tumbler full, despite the earliness of the hour, and he tossed back half of it in one gulp. “I won’t judge you too harshly if you find it distasteful. There is no shame in admitting you cannot handle that sort of work, or that environment.”

“Let’s see how long I can last, then, Father.” Bucky paused. “Six months.”

George sputtered on his next gulp of brandy. “I beg your pardon?”

“Six months. Why not?”

George glanced at Bucky, in his carefully tailored clothing, manicured nails, pomaded hair and gleaming leather shoes. He wiped a drop of brandy from his lip with the handkerchief tucked into his pocket. “That’s an oddly specific timeframe.”

“Seems rather short to me.” Bucky’s voice held an edge.

Bucky’s meaning wasn’t lost on George. 

“We will see how short it seems when you find yourself behind a plow. Or repairing a fence. Or harvesting from the field.”

“I can hardly wait.”

*

And so, the terms were set.

George wrote them out into an agreement and had it notarized. Bucky signed it in his neat script. 

_I, James Buchanan Barnes, swear that I will uphold the terms of the agreement and accept a monthly income from my father, George Barnes, in return for my services that will include direct labor and upkeep of his rural properties and interests._

_In deference to those terms, I will not conduct business or interact with the farm currently maintained and leased to one Steven Grant Rogers. I recognize that this is a conflict of interest and that the terms of this contract will be deemed null and void in the event that I fail to maintain this part of the agreement. I will forfeit my father George Barnes’ monthly stipend going forward, and will be dismissed from my position with Barnes Family Agricultural Associates and surrender the assets and status of said position, forthwith._

*

It felt like signing his life away.

But Bucky felt the heady sense of freedom, now, as he rode down that gravel road, feeling the wagon rock beneath him, jarred by every jutting rock, root and cobble. He missed the smoothness of his carriage’s ride - his _father’s_ carriage, he amended - but this time, Bucky was the one holding the reins.

He arrived at the Rogers farm promptly and found himself delighted by the riot of colors, from the flock of hens and roosters out pecking in the yard at scattered corn, to the spice garden filled with various herbs and lavender, to the orchards filled with maturing apples and blossoms that promised future lemons and oranges. 

The house stood toward the east side of the property. Two-stories. Modest. The whitewash was in need of refreshing, but the shutters and roof were sound, as was the bulkhead leading down into the cellar. Flowering clematis vines and rose branches twined around a trellis in the garden. 

Bucky pulled his wagon up to the fence and tethered his horses to the post. He gave himself a minute to drink it in. The farm was modest by his father’s account, but large to Bucky’s eyes, certainly too much for one man to maintain by himself.

“Hey! You! Hello, over there!” a young, sharp baritone voice called out. Bucky turned and waved to a man who looked no more than eighteen, with dark hair curling down around his ears, wearing a red scarf and dark jacket and cap. His coveralls were slightly stained and frayed, but his sturdy clothing still looked to be of good quality and made for hard work. 

He walked slowly out of the barn, drinking something steaming from a tin cup. “Are you lost?” he called to Bucky.

“No, no, I’m not lost. I’m right where I planned to be. Are you Mr. Rogers? Steven Rogers?”

The young man was already walking out to meet him, and Bucky watched him roll his eyes and laugh to himself. “Oh, certainly not. You’d never mistake me for Steve if you knew him. And no one ever forgets that one, believe me. He’s one of a kind.”

Bucky heard the warmth and amusement in his tone, and he felt himself smiling in return. “Is he up and about?”

“He’s been ‘up and about’ since before dawn, man. Hey, I’m Billy. Short for William Kaplan, but no one’s ever called me anything but Billy.” He reached out with his free hand to shake Bucky’s. “Steve hired me on to help him with everything.”

“What do you usually help him with?”

“ _Everything_ , man, I just told you,” Billy told him impatiently, but his eyes crinkled at their corners. 

“Where’s the rest of his help?”

“I’m it. That’s funny. ‘The rest.’ Oh, you must be new around here.”

Bucky reeled for a few moments. “Good heavens…”

“There’s a fence that needs mending out on the back field, or the cows will get out again,” Billy told him. “Perhaps we can cut this short?”

“Er… that’s… that’s fine. Sorry. I didn’t mean to delay you or keep you from your work. I just need to talk to Steven.”

“He prefers Steve.” Then Billy sized Bucky up. He took in his clothing, which was simple enough. Fresh coveralls and a crisp new work shirt. A well-lined jacket and wool driving cap. He glanced at Bucky’s hands and noticed right away the clean, perfect nails and cuticles, not so much as a hangnail or callous in sight. “What’s your business here?”

“He received a letter from my employer recently. Should have just come in the post.”

That made Billy step back. “Your employer? You mean, that Barnes fellow? The one that wanted him to marry that son of his?”

He said “that son of his” like George had suggested Steve marry a skunk.

“Er…”

How would Bucky even explain this?

“My fa- er, my employer sent him a letter spelling out the terms of his continued management of the property.”

“Continued management,” Billy scoffed. “Right. Sure. You mean his death sentence. He wants to snatch away everything Steven Rogers and his mother worked for all these years, is what that one plans to do! He’s only giving him six months to turn things around!”

“Did Steve ever receive the second letter?”

“What are you on about, man? Second letter?”

“From Mr. Barnes.” It felt so strange referring to his father with his title.

“I don’t know anything about a second letter, but the only letter Steve told me about from ‘your employer’ dashed all his hopes into the ground.’ Billy shook his head and gave Bucky a brittle laugh. “Not that it’s stopping him. Steve’s wearing himself into the ground as we speak.”

“But- but, I have some good news for him, and he should have received a second letter! Please, can you let him know that I’m here?”

Billy gave him an exasperated look and finished the contents of his cup, which smelled like strong coffee. “What was your name again?”

“Bucky,” he blurted out. “Bucky Bar- er, Barton. Bucky Barton.”

“Barton?” Billy scratched the side of his nose. “Any relation to Clint?”

“Clint?”

“Y’know. Owns the confectioner’s down the road. Tall, blondish, has big arms and freckles?”

It dawned on Bucky that he’d just borrowed his casual friend’s surname, and he decided to roll with it. “Sure. Distantly related. On our - on my father’s side.”

“Funny. Now that you mention it, I recognize that old wagon of his.” Billy nodded to Bucky’s wagon. 

Bucky felt cold fear settle in his gut. There was so much potential for this to go wrong, but he merely smiled. “He sold it to me for a song.”

Billy made a thoughtful sound. 

“So, where is Steve?”

As if on cue, there was a loud, shrill squealing that came from the back side of the barn.

“Ah, there he is. He’s got to give ol’ Bertha her medicine. She doesn’t sound like she plans on going easy with him.”

“Bertha?” Bucky wondered aloud. 

Suddenly, the wildest, scruffiest, most untamed man Bucky had ever run across came hurrying out from around the corner of the barn from the pens in back. An enormous sow struggled in his arms, squealing and screaming up a ruckus. He saw the sow kicking and flailing, trying to fight her way loose, but the man - _Steve_ , Bucky realized with a sharp little thrill of anticipation - kept a solid hold of her and sat down roughly on a stool near the pen and removed a short, hollow syringe from his pocket.

“Be a good girl, now, Bertha, take it easy, girl, don’t be picky now,” Bucky heard him urging. “Time for the medicine. C’mon, now, won’t you behave yourself?” He wrestled her down and pried open her mouth while she continued to squeal and kick up a fuss.

“She being contrary?” Billy called out, grinning as though he found it thoroughly entertaining.

“Of course not,” Steven bellowed back in a deep, sonorous voice that made Bucky’s stomach do a little flip. He finally managed to squirt the contents of the syringe into her mouth and massaged her throat to make her swallow it down. Bertha, seeing the perfect opportunity to take umbrage, finally broke free of his grasp and bolted for the pen, her immense mass of fat jiggling the whole way.

“Always a pleasure, Bertha! We must do that again!” Steve called after her, laughing as he slapped his grimy hands against his knees to clean them off. He tucked the empty syringe back into his pocket and finally turned to Billy and his unannounced visitor.

“Good morning,” Steve called out, waving. “I’m afraid you caught me when I was indisposed?” His tone was joking but unapologetic. He rose from the stool and attempted to come and greet Bucky, until he heard more squealing from the pen and remembered he needed to lock it. “Blast,” he muttered. “Hold on!” he called back to Bucky as he ran back in.

“That.. that was a pig in his arms.” Bucky’s tone was incredulous.

“Too big for a turkey,” Billy agreed. “We’ve got some of those, too, but it’s the sheer devil trying to keep them off the roof.”

Bucky wondered what on earth he’d managed to stumble into, when he heard the sow squealing loudly and Steve’s less than dignified curses and pleas.

The afternoon would prove interesting, to say the very _least._


	8. Bucky Gets His Hands Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I get the impression you’re a bit new at this.”
> 
> “What gave you that idea?”
> 
> Bertha mooed at Bucky, a wounded, disgruntled sound, right before her hoof flew up and clouted him in the ear. He roared in pain and fled the path of her next kick, cursing. The milk pan flew aside, landing in the hay.
> 
> “Because you’re milking her on the wrong side?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Just go with it. I know this is a trash fire, but I’m having fun.

Steve plunked himself down at the modest kitchen table and stared up at Bucky where he lingered in the doorway.

“So, where did you say you last worked again?”

“Uh. I didn’t. But… I work for Mr. Barnes.”

Steve’s sandy brows drew together, and he hummed in comprehension. “Make yourself at home,” he offered, nodding for Bucky to take the chair across from him. Billy smirked from the other end of the room while he cut slices from a loaf of coarse bread. Something about the young man in what looked like new, unstained work clothes gave him pause, despite Bucky’s earnest nature and easy smile.

“Thank you, Steve. Er, it is fine to call you Steve, correct?”

“Just don’t call me late for church.” Steve’s tone was bland, but Bucky noticed a slight twinkle in his eye. He hoped to see more of it.

Bucky decided that he needed to see more of Steven Rogers in every aspect, because the man was an absolute _vision_ out of his dreams. Golden, rough-hewn good looks. Luminous blue eyes that held intelligence and humor within their depths, as well as an enticing hint of green. Large, work-roughened hands. Sandy hair generously dusted his muscular forearms, revealed by his rolled-up sleeves. Bucky’s tailor would swoon over the man’s measurements. Steve’s shoulders were enviably broad, and his waist was narrow and firm. He radiated strength, power, and robust good health.

Bucky wondered what Steve had looked like in his wedding finery. The thought pricked at him, leaving him slightly sore.

“Are you? Usually?”

“I rarely attend,” Steve admitted. “The vicar takes exception to me working on the Sabbath, but there is no help for it. Just because the church doors are open, that doesn’t mean I haven’t a farm to tend to.” He paused a moment. “For now, at any rate.”

“You’ve tended it surprisingly well, from what I’ve seen so far.”

“And you’re an expert on that sort of thing?” Steve’s eyes raked over Bucky with immediate skepticism, not unlike Billy’s earlier perusal of him. He felt his cheeks flush as he took in Bucky’s careful grooming, feeling self-conscious about his own dirty state and disheveled hair that was pressed into odd shapes by his cap.

“Er…” Bucky made a vague gesture. “I was hoping you could show me around a bit more, when you have time.”

“When I have time. Certainly. Between picking the apples, repairing the fence, slopping the pigs, mucking out the horse stall, plowing the east field-

Steve continued to list his day’s chores, and Bucky realized it was _endless_. 

“...milking the cows, thinning the seedlings in the spice garden, churning the butter, patching the roof, because we’ve had a leak, harvesting the grain, collecting the eggs to take to market tomorrow…

“That’s all?” Bucky joked.

Steve’s brows drew together, and Bucky held up his hands. 

“Sorry. It’s just… I mean, there’s only two of you. You’ve just told me a load of work that would take at least five men to finish in one day.”

“And?” Steve’s tone was bland but long-suffering. “At the moment, you’re interrupting me from _all_ of it.”

“That’s really not what I meant to-”

“Come on, Billy,” Steve muttered as he rose from his seat. “Perhaps you’ll see yourself out,” he tossed over his shoulder, and Bucky realized he was talking to _him_.

“Wait! Steve!” He pushed away from the table and found himself _chasing_ the man out of the house as he crossed the yard in long strides. They were nearly of a height, and Bucky’s own long legs allowed him to keep up with him, but Bucky felt a bit foolish. This wasn’t how he wanted this first meeting to go at all.

“I still need to talk to you,” he pleaded. “About the letter. About my fa- er, my employer’s communication with you.”

“I’m well aware of his intentions. He means to claim the farm if I don’t turn it around and make an ample profit in six months. I remember something like my future eviction from my family home clearly, and with considerable gravity, Mr…” Steve speaking for a moment while he entered the barn.

“Barton,” Bucky lied again, slowly warming to the alias. 

Steve made a thoughtful noise.

“Er. Clint’s cousin?” he said hopefully.

“He never said he had one,” Steve mused as he filled a feed bag with oats and greeted one of his horses with fond clicking sounds before offering it breakfast. Steve looped the straps of the feedbag around the back of its head and stroked the creature’s coarse, gleaming mane briefly.

“On his father’s side,” he offered, unsure of whether that was what he’d told Billy.

“Clint lost his father before I lost mine,” Steve told him. “Your uncle, then?”

“Old uncle Paul-”

“Harold,” Steve corrected him.

“Paul was his middle name,” Bucky recovered, even though he knew no such thing.

Steve huffed. Bucky felt himself flushing, and he raked his fingers through the hair at his nape.

Steve’s eyes tracked the gesture. Whoever this stranger was, he was daft. Even seemed a bit of an idjit, if Steve was being honest. _Look at him._ Short, clean nails. No callouses or blisters on his hands. His skin was fair and untanned, a man of leisurely pursuits. Perhaps a scholar. His hair was a rich, sable brown with caramel blond glints when he stood in the sunlight, and when he smiled, his eyes - a striking shade of slate blue - crinkled at the corners. He was fit and built on elegant lines. Bucky - such a strange name, really - looked like he stepped out of an advertisement for hair pomade or cufflinks. Damned handsome, with sharp bone structure and a mouth that seemed to love to smile. He even had a little cleft in his firm chin. The nerve of him.

“There was a second letter, Steve,” Bucky told him, wanting to press on with his point before Steve dismissed him again.

“A second letter?”

“Yes. From my fa- er, Mr. Barnes.’

“You seem to be trying to call him something else?” Steve wondered aloud.

“No. No. I’m not.”

“You have twice so far-”

“Did you get it in the post?”

“No. Just the one.”

“Hey! STEVEN!” Billy called out as the mail wagon pulled up to the edge of the drive. He took the handful of letters from him and held up one that immediately looked familiar to Bucky with its green wax seal. “This just came for you!”

He jogged down the drive, waving it in the air. “Looks like it’s from that Barnes fellow.”

“Wish he would simply let me work in peace.” Steve took it from him and impatiently cracked the seal and withdrew the folded letter. His eyes scanned it quickly at first, then slowly. Bucky watched his face take a journey, from annoyance at first, then confusion, then suddenly… annoyance, again.

“What…” Steve stared up at Bucky. “What’s this? This says… that you are his employee and manager? That you will be overseeing operations of the farm and reporting back to Mr. Barnes?”

“To some degree. I defer to your knowledge of the day to day workings of the farm, but. Er.” Bucky hadn’t thought quite this far, yet. The writer in him searched for any feasible reason for him to arrive every day to Steve’s farm.

“Defer… to my knowledge?” Steve’s expression kept flickering from one mood to the next as he reacted to Bucky’s words. “But you’re going to oversee things? And report back to that…” He exhaled roughly through his nose, lips tight, and Steve turned away from Bucky, throwing up his hands in a gesture that kicked Bucky in the gut. It was on the tip of his tongue to jump immediately to his father’s defense, before he realized that he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to keep up his ruse. Then Steve laughed. It was a harsh, ragged sound, not the least bit infectious, and Bucky recoiled. “So. Instead of giving me a husband I didn’t ask for, he will give me a headache.”

“No. A chance,” Bucky corrected him. “And I truly wish you would come to see it that way.”

“You’re going to ‘manage’ my farm?”

“Not… quite. I’m here to help. With expenses. Books. With assessing your farm’s needs. This isn’t the only farm that m- Mr. Barnes owns. You’re well aware of that, I’m sure?”

“I was aware,” Steve confirmed, adding sourly, “Must be nice.”

“Most of those farms are turning a tidy profit,” Bucky pointed out.

“Due to your management?”

“Due to his. But he has asked me to come and work for him. I recently finished school-”

“School?” Steve huffed.

“Pembroke.”

“Pembroke? As in, the college?”

“Yes.”

“So. You’re fancy.”

Bucky deflated slightly.

“You are,” Steve pointed out. “You plan to come and manage my farm, and you look like a man who’s never had to work on one a day in his life.”

“I’m a quick study.” Bucky didn’t mention that he’d certainly visited his father’s properties before and watched the local farmers go about their chores. He’d even been allowed to milk a goat, once. Granted, he’d been ten at the time. And the goat was an agreeable creature, unlike Steve’s sow. 

Steve didn’t have to know that.

“Look, Bucky… I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for nonsense, or to hold your hand, or to take you through my usual day, because my usual day lasts about eighteen hours, and I’m working from the moment I wake up until I collapse into bed at night.” Steve tugged on his hair helplessly. “This just seems like it won’t work. And I have six months of this. All I ask is that you don’t get in my way, all right? Don’t pass judgment on how I do things, or slow me down, or ask me too many damned questions!”

“I can’t promise that I won’t ask questions,” Bucky argued, and he found himself walking faster to catch up as Steve exited the barn in long, angry strides. “When do you start your day?”

“Dawn. I’m up with the roosters.”

“Then, I will come here at dawn. Or, shortly after, at any rate,” Bucky informed him. Steve gave him a jaundiced look. “All right, then. Dawn. Dawn, on the spot.”

“Honestly? You? Here? On my farm, at daybreak? Oh, this, I can’t wait to see!” Humor lit his blue eyes, and they crinkled pleasantly for a moment, and Bucky almost forgot that Steven Rogers had given every impression of disliking him only moments before. “You’ll end up flat on your arse by noon.”

Oh, never mind, there it was, after all. Bucky shook his head.

“I can’t wait, either.” Bucky held out his hand, and Steve stared down at it, nonplussed. He took it firmly and shook it, and Bucky refused to take offense - much - at the reluctance in the gesture. Steve’s eyes flitted down to their linked hands. His grip was so, so warm, and Bucky felt himself tingle. Steve’s thumb stroked the back of Bucky’s hand, a fleeting caress that made Bucky wonder if he was imagining it. Then those eyes rose to meet his, and Steve muttered, “So damned soft.” He tsked. “Not for long.”

*

Bucky spent most of the afternoon following both men around, growing more awed by the minute how much work they accomplished from when he first arrived. Harvesting. Plowing. Threshing. Planting. Feeding. Small repairs. Milking. Churning. Reconciling the books. Bucky watched the two of them sort through a box of receipts and thumb through a smudged, slightly disorganized ledger.

“How can you keep track of what you’ve spent for the month with it like this?” Bucky demanded.

“We manage,” Steve grumbled as he wrote down the amount of money he made the day before when he went to market and sold some cheese, eggs, and herbs. 

“Might be able to manage the trip to the blacksmith and re-shoe the horses,” Billy said.

“Not yet. We need a new blade for the plow.”

“Need a new plow, more like,” Billy countered.

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.”

“Put a beggar up on a horse, and he might think he’s George Barnes for a day, eh, Stevie?” Billy joked. Bucky turned away, fuming. Steve chuckled, until he noticed the little vein standing out in Bucky’s jaw.

“Don’t like hearing us talk like that about your employer, eh?”

“I really don’t.” Bucky’s tone was soft, but firm.

Billy muttered something unpleasant under his breath and pushed away from the table. “Who wants a sandwich?” he offered.

“I’ll take one. Make three,” Steve said, nodding to Bucky. As if on cue, Bucky’s stomach growled, and he realized that both men had worked through tea time. 

“You don’t have to-”

“C’mon, man. Sit and eat. You can tell me all about how you’re planning to manage me and my farm when I don’t have to listen to either of our stomachs. Just don’t ruin my digestion.” 

Supper was some cold, leftover mutton and sandwiches spread thickly with butter and jam. Steve sliced the meat and gestured to Bucky to serve himself some, which Bucky automatically cut into dignified bites as he ate; Steve and Billy didn’t stand on ceremony and picked up thick slices and tore at them with their teeth. Bucky’s mother would have been absolutely appalled. Steve’s table manners, or rather, the lack of them, fascinated him. Steve crammed the last wedge of his sandwich into his mouth, washed it down with half his glass of milk, and belched cavernously. Bucky smothered his own burp in his handkerchief in lieu of a napkin. Billy watched him and rolled his eyes.

“Fancy,” he muttered.

_didn’t learn my table manners from the livestock._ Bucky drank from his glass and lifted his pinkie from the edge as he swallowed.

Steve’s eyes dilated as he watched the liquid work itself down Bucky’s throat. Bucky delicately wiped the film of milk from his upper lip. “Er. You missed a, um…” He motioned to the corner of his own mouth, and the tip of Bucky’s tongue darted out to lap at the corresponding spot, catching a speck of strawberry jam. 

“Got away from me, didn’t it?”

There was something about watching the man eat. Steve shook off the trance that had fallen over him from watching Bucky’s mouth, and he gathered up his dishes, taking them to the wash tub. 

*

Bucky retired early once he arrived at his tiny rented room that sat above the town’s barber shop. He lay in bed scribbling down some notes in his manuscript, inspired by the sights and sounds of the farm. He wrote until his eyes burned from exhaustion and finally set down the manuscript and extinguished the candle.

They hadn’t had the most auspicious beginning, but Bucky couldn’t wait to see Steven Rogers again.

*

Bucky rose at dawn, feeling like he’d barely slept from excitement. The stars were fading from the cobalt blue sky, and the clouds were shifting, just beginning to change color. Bucky washed and dressed in some of the work clothes he’d recently purchased, hoping Billy didn’t deem him too “fancy” and then fail to take his efforts seriously.

Bucky wished heartily for a cup of black tea or coffee, still yawning as he set out down the road in his wagon. The morning air was chilly and bracing, and his horses were already growing familiar with the way to the Rogers’ farm. It seemed to take him a shorter time to arrive, despite the earliness of the hour. Bucky wasn’t surprised to see a lantern lit in Steve’s upstairs window already as he came up the drive. Billy was already out in the front yard, sitting out on the stoop, and he looked up in surprise as Bucky stopped his wagon and hitched his horses.

“Well, look who’s here, fresh as a daisy,” he teased, but there was no malice in it. Bucky touched the brim of his cap in greeting, nodding. “Stevie! STEVE! Look who’s here!” he called up toward the window. Bucky looked up and saw Steve come to the window, still buttoning his shirt. His dark blond hair was still tousled, but he looked alert and rested already. He opened the window and called down to them.

“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, aren’t you?”

“And full of questions. _So_ many questions.” Bucky’s smile was mischievous. Steve just shook his head, ducked back inside, and slammed the window shut.

Steve grumbled to himself as he went through the motions of getting ready, cramming his feet into heavy woolen socks and work boots, washing his face and foregoing his shave because he had no one to impress, _especially_ not that dimpled dandy outside. Well. Time to show him what life on the farm was about.

Steve tramped downstairs and found the two men in his kitchen, filling a kettle. “Bucky said he could use some warming up. I’m making tea.”

“You mean waking up, right?” Steve countered. Bucky’s eyes were drooping slightly, but he waved Steve off.

“I’m fine. Never better.”

Steve grunted at him as he went outside to the henhouse. He returned with some eggs gathered up in the hem of his untucked shirt, and Bucky realized again that he was hungry. Steve gathered up some butter and took down a heavy iron skillet where it hung from a hook.

He lit the stove and melted a generous pat of butter and swirled it around to coat the skillet. Once he cracked the first of the eggs, the aroma filled the kitchen, making their mouths water.

“Go ahead and slice the bread,” Steve told Bucky, who experienced a moment of confusion.

“The… bread. You want me to…?”

“Slice it. Cut some of it for us to eat with the eggs, man!”

“All right.” Bucky took the knife that Billy fetched for him and eyed the slightly lump loaf of bread. With less finesse than he would have liked, Bucky sawed three uneven slices of bread from the loaf, showering the plate and table with crumbs in the process. Billy raised his eyebrows at his efforts.

“My five-year-old niece is handier with a knife,” he teased as he took the bread and moved them to separate plates, awaiting portions of fried eggs. Billy toasted the bread in a separate griddle and then spread them with butter and jam.

“The jam was good, yesterday,” Bucky mentioned, ignoring the slight. “Where did it come from?”

“From the dainty little jam fairies,” Billy said.

Steve bit back a laugh as he turned the eggs gently to protect the yolks. “From the Rasputin farm. We trade with them for goods every now and again. It is good, isn’t it?”

“Better than the kind I have at home.”

“Your ma isn’t much a cook?” Billy asked.

“Er…” Bucky searched for an explanation. “Not. Much.”

“Your father married her for her looks, then?”

“Billy, quit it! Stop taking strips out of him and pour the tea.”

“All this one’s good at is looking pretty. Don’t you wonder why?”

Bucky flushed all the way up to his ears. Then, he decided to take a different tack. “Do you really think I’m pretty? I wore this shirt just for you, darling. Brings out my eyes, don’t you think?”

Steve guffawed. “This one’s weak for blue eyes, all right. He’s had his eyes on this one lad at the market, Teddy, even though he won’t admit it.”

“Hush yourself!” Billy snapped, giving Steve a mulish look. He grabbed tea and threw it into the press in impatient motions, and this time, Bucky saw color rising up into Billy’s cheeks. Well, then.

“Big and blond as an Adonis,” Steve teased, as though no one could accuse him of the same. “Gives our Billy the biggest smile every time he goes to his cart to trade for fruit.”

“Shut up, Steve!”

Bucky began to enjoy himself. “Impress him with how well you slice a loaf of bread, Billy. That should get his attention.”

Billy brandished the knife at Bucky and gave him a look. He muttered something unflattering under his breath as he continued to make the tea. Steve went back to the eggs and plated their breakfast. They made short work of it, washing it down with tea and milk. Bucky felt a boost of energy from the food and just from listening to the two men bickering back and forth, hearing the clatter of dishes as Steve finished the washing up, and then they extinguished the lantern in the kitchen before tramping outside.

Billy let the hens out to walk and peck and shoved a large, heavy feedback of grain at Bucky. “Go ahead and scatter some of this around. Make yourself useful, Fancy Trousers.”

Bucky shrugged and began to scatter the grain for the fowl as they wandered about and clucked up a ruckus. Some of them had gorgeous plumage; Bucky smiled at the tiny chicks and their cheeping sounds, still fuzzy with yellow down. He watched the birds, rapt with their variety and antics. He stumbled backwards over something large that squawked up at him in umbrage.

“Oh, good Lord!” he cried at the sight of the turkey. The fowl tipped its head to the side, making its wattle tilt. He leaned forward and pecked at Bucky, demanding some of the grain. Bucky laughed and held out a handful, but the turkey wasn’t impressed. It gobbled up at him and lunged for Bucky’s sleeve, making him quickly drop the grain and stumble backwards.

“Don’t take any sass from that one,” Billy warned. “He won’t respect you if you don’t show him who’s boss!”

Steve wanted to point out that same rule applied to every creature on the farm, but he realized that Bucky had to know this if he was expecting to help manage things on the farm? Steve didn’t want to indulge in false hope. Perhaps Bucky Barton was simply a pretty face and George Barnes’ spy who would carry tales back to him about Steve’s lack of profits in his investment.

Fair enough, then. Let Bucky learn what it took to keep the farm running when there was only one man paying the bills and two doing the work. Bucky finished his education at the university, but he would continue it in the barn and at the market and out in the field. 

And it wasn’t up to Steve to make his introduction into his world gentle. Or even remotely appealing.

That didn’t stop him from occasionally peeking at Bucky when he was watching the wee chicks, charmed by how sweet they were. His rapt expression was too appealing. Distracting. Steve went back to feeding the horses and pigs. Billy gathered the rest of the eggs and then went out into the orchard to check for ripe fruit.

The rest of the morning, Bucky followed Steve for a bit, volunteering to help whenever a task looked like something he was capable of. Steve eventually sent him off to pick fruit, deciding Bucky could manage it. Bucky eventually got his footing on the old, slightly wobbly ladder and picked the apples. The morning air went from brisk to pleasantly cool, gradually shifting to balmy as they worked on the day’s chores. Life on the farm was busy, but relatively peaceful. Bucky noticed the difference in the sounds. There were no street noises or foot traffic across the cobblestones, no buskers or vendors calling out to the public to buy their wares. Bucky felt himself begin to sweat and gradually removed his jacket and was about to remove his cap until Billy stopped him.

“Don’t go getting too bare. Keep that on. You don’t want the midday sun beating down on you, or you’ll be sorry.”

“It’s not even that bright out today,” Bucky argued.

“You’ll feel it later,” Steve agreed. “You don’t get out and get much sun, I’m thinking.” Bucky’s skin was fair, like peaches and cream, but his face was flushed from the heat. Steve and Billy were noticeably tanned from regular time in the sun. “Now that I’m thinking of it, have a drink.” Steve led Bucky to the water pump and dipped him a tin cupful of water from the bucket. Bucky drank it gratefully, in deep swallows that once again caught Steve’s attention. Bucky wiped a drop of liquid from his plump, rosy mouth with the edge of his finger and handed the cup back to Steve, who also dipped himself a cup while Billy fetched his own, taking a break from harvesting the corn. Steve felt heat rise up his neck when Bucky handed him back the cup, making their fingers graze together for a moment.

“Come on into the barn. The cows won’t milk themselves.”

Bucky smirked. “There aren’t any milk fairies to do it?”

“Wouldn’t that just be the bee’s knees,’ Billy scoffed as he shoved a short stool at Bucky and directed him to take the tin pail hanging from the peg in the corner. Steve took another one that sat in the corner and sidled up to a large, dark brown cow with soft eyes that lowed at him in greeting.

“Afternoon, Bertie,” Steve murmured. “There’s my sweet girl. Sorry to keep you waiting so long.”

“Bertie?” Bucky asked.

“Short for Her Majesty Queen Beatrice the Merciful and Milkful,” Billy corrected him.

“Good Lord…”

“Don’t take her name in vain, either. She has strong opinions about that.”

Bucky tipped his hat to her. “Majesty,” he offered, giving her a little bow.

“Relax. She’s just a cow,” Billy muttered. “Go on. Situate yourself and milk her.”

Bucky noticed Steve had already gone into the neighboring stall to milk the nearly identical cow; this one had a charming white patch between her eyes. Bertie swished her tail at Bucky as he carefully petted her side. He watched Steve for a minute to see his technique.

It was something, watching Steve with those large, rough-looking hands expertly grasping the cow’s udders at the top and pulling down, letting his remaining fingers curl around them in rhythmic squeezes. He expressed the milk efficiently, humming gently as he worked and occasionally holding a one-sided conversation with the cow.

“It’s almost time for your afternoon stroll, sweetheart, I promise. That’s a good girl. Give me lots of nice cream because it’s churning day.”

“Know what Teddy told me the other day?” Billy leaned on the edge of the stall, grinning. “He said that Mikhail plays his violin for their cows and sings to ‘em. He says it makes the milk sweeter.”

“Rubbish!” Steve argued back, but humor danced in his eyes.

“It’s true!”

“That it works?”

“No, that he plays for them. How would I know if it works?”

“Go taste the milk and find out,” Bucky reasoned. Billy gave Bucky a rude look and waved him off.

“Want to quit lollygagging and do some actual work?”

Bucky sighed and brought the stool into the stall and arranged the pail in front of him. He began to talk to Bertie in soothing - he hoped - tones, petting her side. She kept swishing her tail and mooed ominously.

“Good girl,” he encouraged. “I can’t play you a song, but I hope we will get along, miss.” Bucky stroked her udder gently, feeling it sag with milk. She shifted her weight from one hoof to the other, waiting for him to get on with it. He listened to the constant hiss of milk flowing into Steve’s pail in the adjacent stall and hoped he managed the task just as capably.

Bucky tested the udder, gripping it carefully. He gave it a tug. Nothing. He tried again, and Bertie mooed again, sounding annoyed with Bucky already.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, man?”

“I can manage.”

“Sure, you can.” Billy bit his lip and moved on.

“Make sure you squeeze from the top first, with your first finger and thumb. Make a ring around it, then squeeze down with the rest of your fingers,” Steve told him from the other stall when he didn’t hear any milk happening.

“Oh. Of course. That sounds simple enough.” Bucky tried again and managed to get one needle-thin squirt of milk into the pail. He almost crowed in triumph.

“I get the impression you’re a bit new at this.”

“What gave you that idea?”

Bertha mooed at Bucky, a wounded, disgruntled sound, right before her hoof flew up and clouted him in the ear. He roared in pain and fled the path of her next kick, cursing. The milk pan flew aside, landing in the hay.

“Because you’re milking her on the wrong side?”


	9. On the Wrong Side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs some assistance maintaining his secret identity. He has a few too many close calls for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Bucky Barton? Never heard of him.”

Bucky went with Billy two weeks later to the fresh air market while Steve went to the store to buy chicken feed and some other supplies. Steve decided Bucky would have a better opportunity to learn about how they made their profits if he watched Billy sell their goods firsthand.

The smells of the market were overwhelming, overloading Bucky’s senses. The cloying sweetness of various fruits warred with the odor of fresh-caught fish, including bass, trout, and cod; there were pungent cheeses and various fresh greens, roasted nuts, spices and bundles of fresh herbs. Buskers performed for pennies in the center of it all; an old man wearing a heavily patched coat and fraying cap played a mandolin skillfully while his daughter sang along. Vendors promised the best quality for their goods, often competing when they offered the same varieties.

“Fresh, green snap peas, sweet and delicious!”

“Farm fresh eggs, perfect for your breakfast table! You, there, come and take a look at these eggs, laid by the finest Rhode Island red hens!”

“We’re selling eggs, too,” Bucky mentioned, dismayed.

“So?” Billy scoffed. “We’re supposed to just take ours home, then, because they got here first? Stop with that bollocks. We’re going to sell all we came with, and folks will still ask for more.”

Chastened, Bucky helped Billy set up the crudely painted signs after they unloaded their wagon. The lettering was neat enough, but they were made of remnants of planks that had been nailed together; they were hardly professional. Bucky noticed some of the wagons were covered and had signs painted directly on the side, with the name of the farm or business. He actually noticed one of his father’s other associates, Samuel Guthrie, whistling as he set up an elaborate stand of goods with his younger, red-haired brother, Joshua. Their displays were orderly and attractive. They offered gorgeous bundles of wildflowers and perennials, some arranged into elaborate bouquets soaking in glass jars. They also sold herbs tied off attractively in elegant sachets bound with colored ribbon, as well as various fruits and soaps.

“Those are lovely goods,” Bucky murmured. “Becca would love all of it.”

“Becca? Who’s that?”

“Oh, my younger sister,” Bucky enthused. “Father spoils her so much, she empties her purse every time we-” Bucky stopped himself.

“Why’m I not surprised?” Billy tsked. “Can’t imagine she’d be spoiled, after meeting _you_.” Then he paused in unloading the bushels of fruit. “Wait. Clint never mentioned a girl cousin.”

“She’s always picked on him. She’s a dreadful brat, and Clint never has a harsh word for anyone, has he?” Bucky offered quickly.

To his relief, Billy nodded, chuckling. “He really doesn’t. He has his moments, though, where he’s a bit of an eejit, too. I once dared him to drink a whole bottle of Mam’s elderberry wine in one go. He fell over on his arse, and I lost five quid!”

Bucky bit his lip, then cleared his throat.

“He’s worse than Steve, and that’s saying something,” Billy mused. “Clint won’t back down from a bet. Stevie won’t back down from a _fight_.”

Bucky made up his mind to ask Clint one day about the wine bet… whenever he got around to telling the candy store owner that he’d gained himself two new cousins.

Bucky kept himself scarce ever since he began managing the Rogers farm, if he could even call it that. He was a slow study, gradually learning the flow of their daily routine and throwing himself into the chores and harvest. Bertie the cow and Bucky came to a truce of sorts, and she still eyed him warily every time he entered her stall to milk her, but Bucky always made a point of keeping his hands nice and warm and sitting on the proper side. If his end result was a less brimful pail of milk than Steve’s, well; at least Steve wasn’t particularly vocal about it. More often than not, he merely grunted at Bucky’s efforts before going out to repair the fence or wrestle with the pigs. 

Bucky gradually edged himself into Steve’s terse review of his expenses, keeping company with him at the kitchen table as he pored over the ledger. Bucky double-checked Steve’s columns and moved some of the numbers where they belonged.

“You paid more for feed this week than you did the last time you bought it.”

“For my hens, yes,” Steve explained. “Because we have more of them. Haven’t you noticed more of them in the henhouse?”

His voice was irritated, so Bucky merely smiled and nodded. “I did. I’m not arguing the amount of grain. I’m bringing up the _cost_.”

“I buy it from Johann,” Steve told him. “I always have.”

“Johann Schmidt?” Bucky asked. “He may be gouging you, Steve.”

“He’s always offered a fair price for the quality of the feed.”

“Has he? It may be worth it to ask around and see if what he charges you is the same price that he’s charging everyone else, or even if anyone is offering the same amount for less. Maybe it’s comfortable to keep buying it from him because you always have, but that doesn’t mean-”

“Now you’re an expert on grain prices?” Steve scoffed, but Bucky didn’t detect any rancor in him. _Yet._

“I seem to recall that a certain farm owner has about another five and a half months to make a profit.” Bucky added a lilt to the last word. “Spending less may help that while you’re figuring out how to sell and produce _more_.”

“Don’t explain how to run my farm like I’m a child!” Steve snapped as he shoved away from the table and stomped out the back door, cramming his cap onto his head as he went. Bucky growled under his breath.

“Blast. Stubborn bastard.”

He heard Billy’s low chuckle from the hallway as he entered. “Had an epiphany about that, did you? Step in the long line wrapped around the block of people who find our Stevie ‘stubborn.’ You’re not alone in that, Bucky.”

“You haven’t tried to make him see reason?”

“I’ve been standing in that line for longer than you can imagine, Pretty Boy.”

“Can we _not_ call me Pretty Boy?”

“Stop showing up to the farm smelling of pomade and dressed like you’ve never had to work a day in your life, and I might. Or, you could actually spend less time heckling Steve and do something _useful_.” Billy smiled, but as usual, it didn’t reach his eyes, unless he was laughing at Bucky’s expense. Like that time he turned on his way out of the barn and stepped into the slop trough, soaking the leg of his trousers halfway up his calf. Or when he jumped back with a somewhat unmanly cry from the compost barrel when Steve told him to dump in some potato peelings and other vegetable scraps, and Bucky saw the worms and maggots wriggling happily amongst the rotting mass.

Bucky sighed in exasperation and decided to wash the dishes, a chore he was happy to take off of Steve and Billy’s hands. Pietro and Wanda’s mother, Marya, was his family’s cook and housekeeper before Pietro succeeded her, and she often let Bucky and Becca occupy the kitchen and help with the dishes to keep them entertained while Winifred took her constitutional walk or afternoon nap. Despite Billy’s remarks about how “unhandy” Bucky supposedly was with a knife, Bucky also helped with cooking their simple meals after a while. He occasionally overcooked the eggs, and he might have underboiled the potatoes, once, but he was improving. By the time the three of them came tramping back into the kitchen, they were ravenous to eat _anything_ that wasn’t still mooing, oinking, or clucking back at them from the plate.

Now, in the crowded plaza, they began to sell their goods, and Bucky felt a sense of satisfaction. Their hard work was paying off in the form of local women, many of them housekeepers and cooks, gently picking up and “ooh’ing” over their produce and gathering up a dozen eggs to tuck into their baskets. 

“Fresh eggs for your breakfast table?” Bucky encouraged as a young girl considered the apples.

“Not today. Not for me. Mam and I already gathered up a whole mess of ‘em this morning… hey. You have pretty eyes.”

Bucky laughed bashfully and ducked his face. Billy huffed beside him as he dropped coins from the last transaction into their modest cash box.

“You do!”

“Thank you, miss. You’re too kind.”

“Awwww. You know, I would like some apples.” She gave Bucky the money and let him drop six of them into her burlap sack. “I’m making a pie today.”

“It’s a perfect day for pie,” Bucky agreed. “Would you care for anything else?”

“Not eggs,” she reminded him.

“Perhaps some lovely herbs?” He indicated the basil and rosemary and neat bundles of garlic bulbs. 

“Oh, I don’t… you know, I might go ahead and get some garlic.” She dropped another coin into his palm and accepted the bundle.

“What are you over here spending money on?” an older, plumped woman demanded as she approached. “Oh, hello there, sir,” she greeted, offering Bucky a polite nod as she sized him up.

“Apples,” she replied. “And a few other small things…” Her voice trailed off, and Billy raised his eyebrows at the exchange.

“A few other things, eh? Come along, now, Ellie.”

“Oh, all right, Mam!” She turned back to Bucky. “Have a lovely day!”

“A few other things,” her mother murmured as they bustled off.

“Turn up the charm a little more next time, and she might’ve bought eggs, anyway,” Billy told Bucky, elbowing him.

“She didn’t need eggs!”

“So? Keep showing off those dimples of yours. Let’s see what happens, Pretty Boy.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, but Billy chuckled and greeted the next customer. Bucky unpacked more garlic and greeted more people as they approached.

Some of them gave in to curiosity, wanting to meet the new young man working at Steve and Billy’s stand. Bucky chatted them up, answering polite - and sometimes intrusive - questions, smiling the whole time, and the morning flew by. 

“About time Rogers found himself some more help,” one man told Bucky. 

“We’ve managed just fine!” Billy argued.

“There’s nothing wrong with an extra pair of hands. Two of you have been wearing yourselves ragged for as long as I’ve known you, Billy!”

“Not getting much help from _this one_ half the time, he just sits there and buffs his nails!” Billy teased, and this time, the smile reached his eyes. Bucky restrained himself from making a rude comment and bagged up some apples for an appreciative granny who mentioned she was making apple butter for her visiting sons. Bucky saw Steve returning from the shop, hauling two enormous sacks of grain. The effort made Bucky appreciate the bulge of his muscular arms as he met them, and he gave Bucky a tentative smile.

“Are you managing all right?”

“He’s getting the hang of it,” Billy offered. “When he’s not letting _me_ do it all.”

“But you do it so _well_ ,” Bucky countered. He hurried forward to help Steve with the grain sacks, which earned him a wider smile - oh, and a dimple. That was nice, Bucky decided. “Let me. Is there more?”

“Yes. I can go and get the rest of it-”

“Let me help.”

“Suit yourself.” The sack was heavy, all right, but Bucky managed to relieve Steve of both of them. The brief contact gave Bucky a whiff of Steve’s sweat and the soap he’d used that morning, with notes of lavender and basil. Steve’s eyes were shining with amusement at Bucky’s effort. Bucky hauled them over the side of the wagon. Bucky caught up with Steve’s long strides as he headed back to the shop, feeling for a moment like a child chasing his older, impatient brother. Harder than any chore Steve threw at him from day to day was fighting for his respect.

_Worth it_ , that tiny voice inside him insisted every time Steve gave him an inadvertent smile or something resembling a grudging compliment. They entered the shop and headed straight to the back, where a taciturn older man with thinning gray hair and sunken cheeks gave Steve a tight smile.

“Two weeks until you place your next order, yes?”

“Maybe,” Bucky interjected. Steve’s brows drew together.

“Of course, Johann. Two weeks, more than likely.”

“If you’re not planning to raise the price again,” Bucky said. He stared down Johann and tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, rocking back on his heels. “It’s gone up a bit in the past few weeks when Steve has ordered it from you. Our budget is tight.”

“All of us must tighten our belts, friend,” Johann chuckled, but there was an odd gleam in his eyes. “I can’t just give my grain away for free, or my own cupboards will be empty!”

“Bucky, the grain is set aside in the back, just inside the door. Four more sacks,” Steve told him, and Bucky heard the edge in his voice. He didn’t much care for it.

“It must be some fine grain,” Bucky mused. “You paid dearly enough for it,” he threw over his shoulder as he headed for the store room. Johann turned on his stool and adjusted his glasses.

“You won’t beat the quality of anything sold in my store, I’ll have you know,” he called after Bucky. “Quality costs money.”

“Grain is grain,” Bucky argued. “Quality doesn’t have to cost top dollar when you’re selling in _bulk_.”

Behind him, Johann’s face suffused with color. Steve, flustered, followed Bucky into the store room and closed the door after himself. “Bucky,” he hissed on a low whisper. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to keep you from promising him another sale if he’s just going to gouge you, Stevie.”

“He won’t keep selling to me if you’re rude to him, Bucky! Honestly! I thought you were here to help me ‘manage’ my farm more effectively, not run off everyone who I do honest business with!”

“ _You_ are the one doing honest business, Steve. But he’s overcharging you for feed. Do your research. Ask around. See how much your neighbors are paying for grain, and then tell me I’m being rude.”

“You just came to my farm, and you think you’re an expert already,” Steve grumbled.

“I also came from school, because I’m ‘fancy,’” Bucky told him, putting emphasis on the word, and Steve’s brows drew together.

“Well, you are, Mr. Fancy Pants!”

Bucky bit back a laugh. They were arguing in a dark, musty store room; Steve was leaning against the tower of grain sacks, with his hand planted on his hip, jaw clenched mulishly. 

“Billy calls me Pretty Boy. Now, you call me Fancy Pants. I might leap to the conclusion that you two don’t like me very much, if I didn’t know better.”

“You think you know better?”

“I think you need me.”

“For what?”

“To save you from yourself. So that you don’t work yourself into an early grave and die a pauper. And to help you save your family’s farm.”

“To save me from my- that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Let’s take the grain to the wagon, Steve, and let’s not spill any. Not one overpriced grain of it, because that’s your _profit_ that you’ll be leaving behind on the floor.”

Bucky tugged at the first sack on top of the stack, forcing Steve to back off and remove his elbow. Steve made an exasperated sound, and his blue eyes flashed at Bucky.

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“I know why,” Bucky told him smoothly as he opened the door.

“Take a second one. Don’t waste a trip. It wastes time.”

Bucky remained mum on that subject. He struggled under the second sack when Steve shoved it into his arms. Bucky stumbled back with the impact, nearly losing his footing. Steve realized his error and hurried to right him, saving him from falling back against a pickle barrel. His strong arm caught Bucky around the waist. Bucky grunted a little at the feeling of being pulled steady. 

Steve’s brows drew together again, and he stared into Bucky’s face, realizing their proximity. His nostrils flared and his eyes flicked over Bucky’s features briefly. Assessing him. “Careful,” Steve muttered. “Don’t drop my grain.”

“Don’t knock me over with it, then.” 

Bucky felt bereft of the contact with Steve released him and grabbed his own two sacks of grain. They exited the store room, while Johann watched them with wry amusement.

“You could save a trip into town by purchasing more grain this time, Steven. The Rasputins have reserved most of what I have in the back, but I could set some aside for you, if you like.”

“We’re fine,” Bucky answered.

“Er… we are, Johann. We’re fine,” Steve assured him as they hurried out of the shop. Once they were down the block, Steve growled at Bucky, “Stop answering for me.”

“Then stop spouting foolish things to greedy shop owners.”

They made their way back to the marketplace and their wagon, and managed to get the rest of the grain into the back in one more trip. They spent the rest of the day selling their goods, and by the time the sun shifted into the west, they were down to their last bushel of apples, and all of the eggs were gone. Bucky felt pleased, but Billy told them, “We might be able to trade them.”

“No, we’ll sell them,” Steve said. The crowds had thinned as families went home for their suppers. The Guthries were packing up their wagon. Josh stopped by and offered Steve a bouquet bursting with autumn colors, orange and red dahlias, large sunflowers, and yellow and white daisies. 

“Here. Take these for Sarah. She always liked them.”

Steve nodded, smiling, and the softness in that look was unfamiliar to Bucky. “She did. I’m sure she’ll enjoy them. Thank you.” He grasped the bouquet and handed them to Bucky. “Here. Hold on to these. Don’t let them get crushed.”

“I won’t.”

“Guess the two of us will do the _real_ work, then,” Billy teased, but there was no rancor in it. He elbowed Steve fondly. “She’ll like them.”

Just then, Bucky nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of a familiar male voice. “You, there! I need those apples! Are they still for sale?” He turned and saw Pietro’s silver head above the crowd and automatically turned away, pulling his hat further down over his brow. Bucky’s heart pounded in panic. “Blast,” he muttered. 

“Bucky, see if he’ll take the whole…” Billy looked up and noticed that Bucky wasn’t there. “.,,bushel. Where did he go?”

“I need these for cider. Hello, there. Apples are the last thing that I need today.” Pietro greeted them warmly and afford Billy the money. “I can bring this back,” he said, indicating the basket, “once I empty it into my cart. Wasn’t there another man with you two a moment ago?”

“There _was_ ,” Billy scoffed. “Guess he was shy.”

“He looked familiar,” Pietro mused. “All right. You gentleman have a lovely evening! My employer and his wife will enjoy the cider I’m planning. It’s getting chilly outside.”

“It’s nice,” Steve told him. “I’m enjoying it, for now.”

“Until it gets all blustery out, and you catch that cough again,” Billy scolded. “You were laid up for days, last time.”

“You seem like you have such a strong constitution,” Pietro argued. “You are the picture of good health!”

“That hasn’t always been true. But it’s a wonder what good, fresh air and sunshine will do for a man,” Steve told him. He clapped Pietro’s shoulder. “Enjoy the apples. You’ve saved us from having to haul them back home.” He glanced around in confusion. “Where is he?”

“Got me,” Billy said, shrugging.

Mere yards away, Josh Guthrie nudged Bucky with his foot. “Is there any particular reason why you’re hiding under the turnips?”

“Just tell me if Pietro is gone.”

“The fellow with silvery hair and the big eyes? Yeah, he’s moved on. Bought up the last of your apples. Can’t see why you’d hide from him, if that’s all he was looking for.”

Bucky got up from his crouch. He saw Pietro’s retreating back and expelled his breath. “He’s a kind soul. I have no issue with him. Only with him seeing my current occupation.”

“Nothing’s wrong with farming, man! It’s an honest living!”

“It is. I just haven’t been honest with my family about who I’m doing it for. Sorry for interrupting your packing up.”

“It’s all right. It’s been fun watching you and Billy going at it. Hey. Just so you know, he’s a good man. He’s been helping Steve out for years, and he means well enough.”

“He’s just brash,” Sam agreed. “Only time he ever softens up is around Teddy. I haven’t seen him here today.”

“Hope he’s all right,” Josh said.

“Teddy… oh. _Teddy_.” Bucky remembered Steve and Billy both mentioning him.

“Billy practically falls all over himself whenever he’s around.”

“I’d give anything to see that.”

Bucky watched Pietro leave the market and returned to Steve’s stand, earning himself an odd look.

“Where did you go?”

“I just, er. Wanted to see if the Guthries had anything worth trading.”

“Did they?”

“Maybe next time.”

“Fair enough.”

*

Bucky left the Rogers farm just before sunset and made his way up to his apartment, where he stripped down to his knickers and shirt and cracked open the window, letting the cool evening air fan over his heated flesh. He collapsed onto the bed, grateful for the sensation of gravity coursing through his limbs, making him sink into the down. Close. That had been too close. That left him with the problem of how to help Steve - could he even call it helping, if Steve didn’t want it? - if he went with him into town. Bucky knew he might have to limit his attempts to help him to the farm itself. Where he didn’t feel particularly useful, since there was still so much he needed to learn.

Bucky heard a low knock on his door, and he sat up abruptly, struggling to refasten the buttons of his shirt. “Who is it?”

“Clint,” he called back fondly. 

Bucky grinned as he hurried to let him in, not needing to stand on ceremony. He opened the door, and Clint let himself in, bearing a covered plate. “Brought you supper.”

“That was kind, Clint.”

“Wanted to see how you’re getting along, James.”

“Bucky. Remember to call me Bucky.” He peered down the corridor and shut the door to ensure their privacy.

“I don’t get why, but all right.”

“It’s complicated.”

“I bet it is.” Clint’s look was mischievous as he nodded to the plate that he’d handed Bucky. “Go on. Dig in before it gets cold.”

Bucky removed the towel from the plate and groaned in pleasure at the sight of the meat and potatoes, the hunk of crusty bread and a lump of soft cheese that looked like Clint had toasted it. It melted as he spread it over the bread. He took a greedy bite and told him, “That’s heavenly.”

“You’ve been out on the farm all day, right?”

“Actually, I was at the market today, but I’ve been up since dawn.”

“You’re looking tanned,” Clint remarked. 

That gave Bucky pause. “I’ve been spending a lot of time outdoors.”

“Bet your parents and sister won’t be used to seeing you look like that.”

“So, how are things at the shop?” Bucky asked, changing the subject.

“Peachy. My chocolate covered strawberries are selling as fast as I set them out.” He proudly set down a handkerchief on Bucky’s small vanity and opened its folds, revealing two of the glossy, rich treats. 

“They look wonderful. Bless you.” Bucky hadn’t indulged much in sweets since he started working on the farm.

“Enjoy them. This place is a lot more spartan than you’re used to, isn’t it?”

“It will do. It’s enough, for now. Until I can make my own way, and hopefully, build my own home.” Bucky thought of the house on Steve’s farm. Very simple. Drafty. Crumbling a bit here and there. It had potential, but Steve was struggling as it was just to make his farm profitable. Bucky knew that Steve probably wouldn’t take his advice on things he could fix to make it more comfortable, or in the worst possible scenario, how to improve it enough to make it sellable if he ended up losing his farm. Bucky shivered at the thought. He couldn’t picture Steve heartbroken and resigned, giving up his family estate and everything he and Sarah had worked for.

“It’s not terrible. Perhaps just a bit plain. But, you have a place to lay your head at night! That’s all a man needs.”

“So. You just decided to stop by and bring me supper?”

“No. I ran into your father. He asked after you and wondered if you were going to come home on Sunday for supper. Or perhaps meet him for services.”

Bucky paled. “Church… blast.” 

It had been a while. Bucky was so caught up in the farm that he had missed four Sundays in the pew with his family. 

“Wouldn’t hurt to see them, would it? It’s nice to have a family to spend time with, even when they meddle in your business.”

“Speaking of which… I need you to do something for me.”

“Name it.”

“They can’t know I have been working on Steve’s farm. Please tell me you haven’t told them that’s where I am!”

“I didn’t. I just said that you bought my wagon.”

Bucky clapped his palm over his mouth and scrubbed it down his jaw in frustration.

“Was that wrong? Please, tell me if that was wrong?” Clint looked chagrined. “Aw, Bucky, no! Did I misspeak?

“Father will wonder why. No, Clint, it’s all right. It’s all right.”

Clint looked unconvinced and entirely apologetic. Bucky reached out and squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry about it. Just… don’t volunteer too much information to them. All right?”

“That’s fine with me. I’ll button my lip going forward,” Clint told him, making sewing motions over his mouth, lips pressed thin. Bucky laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this is short. I've been trying to ease back into writing after a long hiatus, a difficult move, LOTS of extra hours at work, and just... life. Yeah. Anyhoo.
> 
> Hopefully more to come soon. I have a couple of Big Bang and other writing and art exchange obligations to finish, but I hope to get back to this.


	10. Country Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Your brother wasn’t exactly a quick study when it came to milking a cow. Got himself kicked and had his chimes rung by sitting on the wrong side.”
> 
> “Oh. There’s a wrong side?”
> 
> “Indeed, there is, and Bucky found it!”
> 
> “Oh, that’s brilliant. Tell me more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has taken me a while to get back to this, and I got that LOVELY message from the FTH mods that my auction prize for my lovely bidder was still incomplete. Nothing quite lights a fire under your fanny like getting that in your inbox.
> 
> Have some of Bucky and Steve being cute and some foreshadowing...

“It’s been a while since Bucky joined us for supper,” Winifred mused as she worked on her needlepoint.

“Miss him, do you, Mrs. Barnes?” George teased fondly. “We no longer have to feather the nest so thickly, now that one of your chicks has left it.”

“Don’t say that!” Winifred shot him a mulish look as she unrolled a card of green floss. “I’m just thinking we need to have him around soon. I need to set eyes on him. So that I can make sure he’s feeding himself up properly and taking care of himself.”

George wasn’t overly worried, and was glad to divulge why. “From the mouths of my associates, our son has been keeping himself busy. He’s been circulating and working on the books. He’s learning, dear. I don’t expect him to get everything right on his first whiff of real, honest work. But,” and George smiled at her over the edge of his newspaper, “sending him off to Pembroke wasn’t a wasted investment at all.”

“Well, of course it wasn’t.” Her voice held a light scold, and she narrowed her eyes at her husband for daring to suggest otherwise. “He’s brilliant. We already knew that about our son, but he deserved nothing less.”

“I still expect him to make good on my investment. I want it to bear fruit through his hard work for the family business. I expect to hear no more about that ‘writing’ rubbish.”

“It’s a dream of his, dear. Dreams aren’t ‘rubbish.’”

“They are when they don’t put food on the table.”

“I dreamed of raising a family and running a lovely and productive home after a certain charmer convinced my father that he would keep me under a stable roof, even though he had barely finished university himself. You’d just started your first farm, as I recall. That dream of mine was hardly rubbish, was it? Nor was yours.”

“Touche, Winifred.”

“Hmmph.”

Becca entered the study, carrying a small book under her arm. “Did I hear you mention Bucky? Is he coming over?”

“We haven’t heard from him quite yet, darling.”

“How unusual,” Becca said. “You would think he would miss Cook’s stew and dumplings enough by now to have shown his face at the table.”

“Becca!” Winifred gave her daughter a long-suffering look. “And you think he doesn’t miss _us_ at least as much as he does the stew and dumplings?”

“No. Knowing Bucky, absolutely not.”

“Impertinent child…”

“You know I’m right.” Becca smirked as she opened her book to where she had it marked with a light blue ribbon tucked down the spine.

“Just for that, you will be the messenger. We will have you go to his apartment and tell him to come to supper tomorrow night at four.”

“What? Mother, I just sat down!”

“Well, back on your feet. You can take the carriage.”

“Alone?”

“No. Wanda can go with you, certainly. Go. Avail yourself of the fresh air. Invite your brother to supper.”

“I don’t see why I have to,” Becca complained, but there was no heat in it. She missed Bucky, too, and wondered what he was up to since the last time she saw him. It was frankly boring around the house when he was off working, but she would never tell him that.

“Come, now, Becca. Bundle yourself warmly, it’s brisk out. Take the carriage.”

“Oh, fine, then.”

George raised his eyebrow in silent warning at her over the edge of his paper. Becca flounced off with her book and went upstairs. She went through her armoire and found warm, woolen stockings, mittens, a long, knitted muffler, and her jacket. The mornings were frosty, but the afternoons were still mild. Soon enough, Bucky would have less work to do with the harvesting on the farms, and more to do with the books. Becca was getting ready for her Season in the spring. The family’s modiste was hard at work on Becca’s gowns for the prospective balls, and Becca was excited, even though she envied Bucky his time at university. 

She descended the stairs and found Wanda in the kitchen peeling some apples for pie. “Wanda, I need you to please accompany me into town. I’m going to invite Bucky to supper.”

Wanda brightened. “Oh, how lovely! It’s been an age since he last came home. You must miss him!”

“As much as you’d miss Pietro if he suddenly didn’t pop your head into your business every other minute?” Becca scoffed, and Pietro stuck his tongue out at them both. Wanda crossed her eyes at him and threw a wedge of apple at his backside, making him yelp. Wanda donned her own outer clothing and joined Becca in the front yard as they beckoned to the driver. He nodded to them and hurried to the carriage to open the door.

“We’d like to go to James’ apartment in town,” she informed him. 

“Yes, miss,” he agreed, and they were off. The women peered through the tiny curtain over the window, enjoying the countryside and pale gray sky.

“I wonder how much of a mess he’s left it,” Becca mused. 

“We’ll soon see.”

But Becca was excited to see him, and she decided on a side trip first. She opened the window and called out, “Can we go to the confectioner’s first? I have pocket money and want to buy some sweets.”

“Of course, miss.”

“Wonderful.”

They stopped at Clint’s shop and breezed in, practically salivating over the scents of fruit, chocolate and rich creams. Clint waved them over and automatically held up a tiny plate of samples.

“If you like toffee, you’ll love this.”

“Do I love toffee? You might as well have proposed to me, Mr. Barton, those are sweet, sweet words… oh, my goodness.” Becca’s face went on a journey when she popped the small, sticky morsel into her mouth. “It’s spectacular.”

Clint laughed, eyes crinkling. “That’s high praise!”

“She’s exaggerating, nothing can be that good,” Wanda argued, but she smiled up at him and reached for a toffee. After tasting it, she admitted, “I stand corrected. And I am not unhappy to be found wrong.”

“Allow me to educate you, then, on the cream mints I just made. And the bourbon bonbons.”

“Oh, you’re making this so hard. I don’t even want to share any of these with my brother, even though that was the whole point. You’re going to force me to behave myself and give him some, aren’t you?”

“Well. I could appeal to your better nature. Or, I could just sneak in a couple of extra candies and hope the owner of this shop doesn’t notice…”

“Oh, I would hate for you to deceive such a kind, generous, handsome, talented man of such impeccable-”

“Oh, quit that. I’ll throw a couple of extra into your order, you troublesome girl.”

Becca clapped her hands while Wanda snickered. Clint packed up the sweets into one of his gilt-edged boxes and chatted away.

“What are you doing today?”

“I am going to issue my errant brother an invitation to supper with Mother, Papa and me.” 

“Errant? You can hardly call him ‘errant,’ he’s just _busy_ ,” Clint told her. “I rarely see him here, but I see him everywhere else. On the Rasputin farm, the Lensherr farm, at the Guthries, well… just about all of the ones in this district. He’s learning the ropes firsthand, and the hard way, from what I’m told.”

“Oh, _do_ tell,” Becca pleaded, dark blue eyes shining. She laid her palms on the counter and leaned in, glancing around the shop furtively. Wanda looked away politely, studying the displays of treats in the case and on the shelves.

“Your brother wasn’t exactly a quick study when it came to milking a cow. Got himself kicked and had his chimes rung by sitting on the wrong side.”

“Oh. There’s a wrong side?”

“Indeed, there is, and Bucky found it!”

“Oh, that’s brilliant. Tell me more.”

“Got himself chased by a turkey a few weeks back. Ripped the backside out of his trousers when they got caught on a loose fence nail. Knocked over the butter churn and lost half the cream…”

“Oh, my word! Poor Bucket!”

“Poor Bucky is Bucket?” Clint asked, grinning now.

“He always has been.”

“I’ll still never understand how he even came to be Bucky instead of Jim, or even Jamie.”

“His middle name,” Becca reminded him. “It’s Buchanan. Surely he’s mentioned it.”

Clint kept mum, as he had promised, about Bucky’s continuing insistence about borrowing his own last name, as part of his ruse. It still made precious little sense to Clint, but he had no problem keeping a secret for one of his most enthusiastic customers, and, after a fashion, a friend of which he was most fond. “I’ll make sure to tease him about it the next time I run into him.”

“Oh, no! Don’t! Clint! He will blame _me_ , and we cannot have that!”

“Then, stop making trouble and dragging me into it!” Clint scolded, and he playfully booped her nose. Becca swatted at his hand and took the box of chocolates.

“He’s going to love this, I might use this to bargain with him to come to supper, now.”

“If you don’t ruin his appetite for it,” Clint said.

“Those toffees _are_ lovely,” Wanda chimed in. “Thank you for expanding my horizons, sir.”

“You’re most welcome, miss.” Clint waved them off.

“Have a lovely day, Clint,” Becca called out to him as they rushed off to the carriage.

“You’ve got your hands full, Bucket. Don’t slip up,” Clint muttered to himself.

*

Bucky finished washing himself at the basin in his room, still standing in his shirt and breeches when Becca knocked sharply on his door. “Bucky, are you there?”

“Here, but not yet… decent! Hold on, Becca!”

Becca kept knocking insistently, just to annoy him, and he heard another feminine giggle, telling him she wasn’t alone, but that meant whoever it was would get an eyeful of him if he didn’t pull himself together. Bucky found his discarded pair of trousers and hopped into them, rushing to finish buttoning them as he shuffled toward the door. “Becca, stop that!”

“Hellooooooo?” she sang. “I’m looking for my dearest brother Bucket…”

“Good Lord,” Bucky huffed as he finally yanked open the door. “What?!” he demanded. Becca and Wanda merely grinned at him, and he rolled his eyes in disgust. “What do you two want?”

“Is that anyway to greet us when we bring such glad tidings?”

“Or an invitation, anyway,” Wanda clarified.

“Good afternoon, Bucky.”

“You’re both terrible.”

“I’m your sister. I was _born_ to be terrible.”

“The worst,” Bucky agreed as he ushered them inside and kissed her cheek and gave Wanda a brief hug. He finished buttoning his shirt as Becca sat down in his favorite chair. Wanda leaned on the arm of it and glanced around his quarters.

“It’s cozy,” she mentioned.

“It’s a hovel,” he corrected her, “but it’s _my_ hovel.”

“I like it!”

“So do I,” Becca told him, even though he knew she was only being nice.

“It will do for now.”

“Father is paying you enough of a salary that you could afford something a bit nicer than this, isn’t he?”

“This will suffice for my needs, Becs.”

Because if Bucky rented a much nicer flat than this, in a more opulent, reputable quarter of town, and if Steve or Billy saw him coming out of it, looking like the son of a man of means, well. That would ruin his disguise. He needed to get to know Steve better, he needed to help him improve his farm’s income, and hopefully, earn his trust, and his warmth. There were moments when Steve smiled at him, even the times when he laughed at Bucky’s expense, when it transformed him. Bucky craved that rich, masculine laughter and the way it made his eyes twinkle. He was handsome when he smiled, and he was tactile. When Bucky served them his attempt at jam, and it turned out that he’d used _salt_ instead of sugar, Billy choked back several expletives when he tasted it, rounding on Bucky for wasting a batch of berries, but Steve laughed uproariously, and his hand landed on Bucky’s chest for support. His palm felt warm through Bucky’s shirt; the contact made Bucky tingle with a rush, and he felt a blush blooming in his cheeks. Steve gave his shoulder a little shake as he told him, “Maybe next time pay attention to which sack you measure them from, Barton.”

Bucky almost corrected him, holding back the _Barnes_ that leapt onto his tongue. “Beginner’s effort.”

“If that was you beginning anything, let’s make that your last attempt,” Billy suggested as he dumped the ruined jam into the compost. His usual rancor, Bucky heard in his voice, but it was accompanied by a smirk that was almost fond. Bucky could only hope that he was wearing him down. “Heaven help us all if that was your best effort.”

Bucky was exhausted. Learning the odds and ends of the Rogers farm was difficult enough, but Bucky could only devote a day or two a week to helping Steve and Billy. On the days in between, he had to visit and work with his father’s associate farms, and they all did things so differently. In keeping with the stories Billy had told Bucky about the Rasputins, Mikhail, the oldest son, truly _did_ play his violin for the cows and goats.

“Makes the milk sweeter,” Piotr claimed as Bucky sat, rapt, and listened to Mikhail playing. His calloused, work-roughened hands had myriad scars and thickened joints, but he held the bow expertly, reverently as he caressed the strings of an instrument that had to cost the family a pretty penny. His expression was rapturous, passionate as he played a composition that Bucky didn’t recognize, but it stirred up strong emotions in his core. Piotr worked up in the loft, baling and stacking hay while their younger sister, Illyana, stood up on a short stool and churned cream. She was already bundled in heavy clothing, and her cheeks were pink from the drafty air, but she looked pleased as she listened to her oldest brother play.

Bucky spoke to his father that week about an additional money for them to repair the roof of their barn, but the Rasputins waved him off. “We can manage it,” they assured him, and when Bucky offered him some funds of his own, they wouldn’t hear of it. Bucky instead offered to purchase some of their herbs, thinking to make a gift of them to Winifred. 

“You aren’t paying for our roof,” Mrs. Rasputin told him sternly.

“No. I’m merely buying herbs. They look wonderful.”

“Then, you buy herbs.” She pinched his cheek and assembled small, cheesecloth-wrapped bundles of each. Bucky kept them on a shelf at his flat while he waited for the next time he would see his parents, and Becca presented the perfect opportunity. 

She looked fresh and carefully groomed for a simple afternoon excursion. Becca had the freedom to meet for teas in her friends’ parlors, to visit her modiste for fittings, or to harass Clint at his sweet shop whenever she wished. Bucky envied Becca in that she would go into her Season in the spring without having to worry about adopting a ruse, or struggling to make ends meet in the meantime. She could be her authentic self, charming, slightly spoiled, but sweet. Unencumbered. Oh, how Bucky longed for that ease…

“Perhaps you could brighten it a bit with some different curtains. Or some -”

“It will do, Becca.”

“I suppose. You must not be planning to entertain guests,” she joked.

Wanda’s eyes shone with amusement. “Unless you have been spending your time as a houseguest, yourself?”

“Will the two of you just _stop._ ”

Wanda and Becca snickered, and Becca got up and gave Bucky a cloying, clingy hug that he tried to brush off. “We love you, darling brother! We just want so badly to see you wed and to be made an honest man!”

Bucky scowled without heat. “You’re the worst sister in the world. And you, Wanda, stop indulging her.”

“After a fashion, I _do_ work for her, so indulging her is one of my duties.”

“Yet, you enjoy it far too much.”

“I do.”

“Just come to supper, Bucky. Please?”

“I will come. You are _such_ a brat.”

Becca clapped and bounced on her heels.

“Go! You two, get out! Go wait in the carriage for me. Let me finish dressing and make myself presentable.”

“Then, I supposed we will be waiting long-”

“Out.” Bucky’s hand snapped itself toward the door, index finger sharply extended.

They giggled as they rushed off, taking Bucky’s grumbles with them.

*

The carriage ride felt strange to Bucky, after so many weeks of driving himself in Clint’s old wagon. The sensation of the plushly upholstered seat, the scent, the view through the tiny window as the landscape outside rolled smoothly by, came to him as a vaguely remembered dream. _This is Father’s carriage._ There were definitely advantages to riding in it, such as protection from the elements. Becca sat at his side and shared her blanket with him and pointed out the window periodically.

“There is the Xavier estate,” she explained. “Ororo is home from university.”

“Not finishing school?”

“No. She is studying the sciences, interestingly enough. I never realized she was so interesting until she invited me to tea. Emma was there; it’s been a while since I’ve spoken with her, either.”

“That’s nice.”

“They said they went to school with you when we still lived here in town.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Becca gave him a sly look. “DId you know Steve Rogers back then?”

Bucky scoffed. “Steve? How would I have known him?”

“Well, you were just boys then, but surely you would have met him?”

“I remember Clint. We are about the same age. There was a young boy, back then. A year behind me, but it couldn’t have been him.”

“Oh? What was he like?”

Bucky smiled, and his eyes drifted down to his lap. He picked at the fibers in the weave of the blanket thoughtfully. “Tiny. Bright blond hair. Pale. And very, very angry. He used to sit there with a little sketchbook.”

“Bucky, are you joking with me?”

“No. That wasn’t the same person. It couldn’t have been. If you knew Steve Rogers, the man whose farm I’ve been breaking my back to save, you would never confuse him with that boy, Becca.”

“I was too little to join you in school yet, and by then, I know Mother said that we had moved away.”

“Yes, but you went back to that school even after I was sent to Eton.”

“I don’t know that Steven Rogers was still there by then.”

“Because you were so young.”

“No. I just don’t know if he finished.”

Bucky considered that. “It’s still probably not the same boy. It couldn’t be.”

“Wouldn’t it be intriguing if it was, though? Almost like fate, Bucky! Imagine it. Father tried to arrange a marriage for you to the boy you knew in school, and you are trying to court him now!”

“I’m trying to _help_ him,” Bucky corrected her. “And… if it turns out that we have anything in common, that could be considered a benefit. I want to right the wrong that his uncle, and that our father, have both done to him.”

“You cannot tell me you are not courting him. Even without seeing you with him, I know you, Bucket. I’m certain you are showing him your charm and making eyes at him. And I don’t blame you. He’s gallant. He saved me from a terrible tumble off the steps, once.”

“Hmmmm.”

Becca looked pleased with herself. Bucky stared out the window, still discounting her earlier claim, but enjoying the memory of his younger, former classmate.

They reached the Barnes house and shortly joined George and Winifred in the dining room. Winifred, after enthusiastic greetings and displays of affection (“Come to the table at once, we must fatten you up with some of this lovely stew!”), she hung on Bucky’s every word and peppered him with questions.

“Your skin is so rosy and healthy,” she commented.

“Farm life,” he offered.

“All that fresh air,” she agreed. “It’s put apples in your cheeks.” It also brought out sandy glints in his sable brown hair. 

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Hard work is its own reward,” George added, as though he didn’t helm his company from the comfort of his mahogany desk. “I’ve been hearing good things from my associates, son.”

“I can only hope so, Father.”

“It’s so lovely to have you here, Bucky. Since we are on the subject, have you given any more thought to finding a spouse?” Winifred smiled nonchalantly as she broached the completely new topic. Bucky’s spoon hovered over his stew bowl, dripping broth back into it.

“I’ve been very busy, Mother.”

Becca smirked as she speared a lump of potato from her plate, then looked away. Bucky gave her a panicked look before his mother continued.

“Perhaps when spring arrives, we can have you join the promenade and visit a few parlors. I know that things didn’t go quite as we planned, before.” Winifred hesitated, unsure of how to bring up the botched nuptials from almost three months ago. “That doesn’t mean you should give up on marriage or finding the right wife, or husband.”

“Plenty of my associates have suitable candidates,” George added.

“Candidates?” Bucky looked horrified. “Candidates for, what, exactly? My hand? For the end of my bachelorhood? Father, that sounds ridiculous!”

“What’s good for the goose,” Becca teased. “If I am to be married off, then so are you, Bucket.

“Yes, but you _want_ to be, Becca!”

Becca shrugged. “So did you, before.”

“Do we have to talk about this at supper?”

“It’s worth discussing,” George said.

“Is it?”

“James,” George said. “Listen to me. I know that I might have been hasty in choosing Steve Rogers as a match. I realize I trusted him to be worthy, and I thought a union between our families would only profit us all. He proved me incorrect. He reneged after accepting the proposal-”

“A proposal that included a generous amount of duress, Father. I feel we dangled his family home before his nose, like a carrot.”

“Family home… James. That farm could have turned a generous profit several times - no, _dozens_ of times over by now.”

“His uncle ran it into the ground!” Bucky cried. “He just needs to get caught up, and he has no staff, he’s almost on his own-”

“Pardon?”

“There’s only Billy Kaplan helping him-”

“How do you know his name?”

Bucky clapped his mouth shut.

“I. I met him at the farmer’s market,” he lied. “Said he works for the Rogers farm.”

Becca expelled a shaky breath and gave her peas her full attention. Her parents ignored her while George continued to interrogate his son.

“I hope you haven’t broken your promise to me, or the contract you signed.”

“I haven’t, Father!”

Not if “Bucky Barton” was managing the Rogers farm, he didn’t add.

George eyed him sternly. 

“Bucky,” Winifred said. “He left you standing in the chapel, alone. It was cowardly. A gentleman couldn’t do such a thing.”

“Gentleman” didn’t describe the Steve Bucky knew, and Bucky didn’t want to agree with his mother, even though she was speaking on Bucky’s behalf, out of love. Steve Rogers was hardly a gentleman in some aspects. Bucky had heard him shout expletives when he earned splinters from the fence posts or herded the pigs or knocked down hornet’s nests from the eaves of the barn. He ate with appalling table etiquette and belched out loud, wiped his nose on his sleeve while eschewing handkerchiefs, and, well… there were other qualities that Bucky could list. But then, Becca raised the encounter she had with him when he saved her from a “terrible tumble on the steps.” A gentleman would do that, wouldn’t he?

“We don’t know why he did that, Mother.”

“We don’t need an explanation, darling. But, we also don’t need to repeat that by trusting him again.”

“Repeating it?” Bucky shook his head and offered her a rueful smile “Why? Do you have any other prospects that are trying to get into Father’s good graces and earn a place in the family empire?”

“Stop it, James,” George snapped. “That’s no way to talk to your mother. I won’t tolerate disrespect in his house.”

“I didn’t mean to seem disrespectful.”

“Your attitude is insolent, when we mean well. Steven Rogers embarrassed this family.”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Father, when we’ve done nothing wrong.” 

George frowned, exhaling a ragged sigh.

Yet, Bucky disagreed with his own words. The longer he spent in Steve Rogers’ company, the more he realized his own family had, indeed, wronged him. In so many ways.

*

Steve tended his herds and his waning autumn crops, planning the items that could be canned and pickled for sale and for his own food stores. He showed Bucky the herbs and roots that he sold to the pharmacy, his mother’s previous employer, that they used to make potions and tinctures. 

“Chamomile is calming, not just good for tea. Opium is made from poppies -”

“I knew that.”

Steve smiled at him and gave Bucky’s shoulder a friendly pat. “Then, that fancy education of yours might actually prove helpful.”

“You constantly question its usefulness. I’m tempted to claim insult.”

“And, then what? Duel me at dawn?”

Bucky snickered. “You don’t have time to duel me at that hour. You’ll be in the barn with the cows.”

Billy grinned as he unwrapped a slab of cheese from its cloth and sliced it into wedges. He watched the two of them bickering and noticed how Barton watched his longtime friend and employer with hearts in his eyes, as though no one else noticed. 

“I can finish the milking before the sun fully rises. Because I know which side to sit on.”

“You, sir, are hilarious.”

Billy snickered, and Bucky shot him a dirty look.

“Will you be Steve’s second?”

“I know how to polish a pistol, Barton, but I know I will be an old man before you learn the proper direction to hold one, won’t I? And I can wait that long for you to learn how to do anything helpful around here.” Then, Billy’s barbs found a different target. “Besides, Steve can’t hit the broad side of a barn. He’s a terrible shot.”

Steve threw a twig of basil at Billy, who merely laughed as he ducked. Bucky snickered, and Steve threw a twig at him, too, hitting him squarely in the nose. “Poor shot, am I?”

“And a poor sport! You listen to _this one_ ,” Bucky told him, pointing to Billy, who was wholly unapologetic, “riding me all the time and don’t say a word!”

Steve sighed, then shrugged. “A few years at Pembroke taught you numbers. You learned the proper side to milk a cow in one morning. Which was the best investment in your education?”

“I’m here to work, not to be ‘educated.’”

“I could argue that with you.”

“Or, you could stop wasting time. Do we have any more jars for pickling, or so we need to buy some more when we go to town?”

Steve smiled at him and gave him a friendly shove. “I have more of them in the cellar. Don’t worry about it, Bucky. We should have enough.”

*

“How is Steven doing?” Darlene asked Sam as she arranged a bouquet of autumn flowers and eucalyptus stalks in a willow patterned vase. 

“He seemed to be managing well, Mother, the last time we spoke.”

“I haven’t seen him at services.”

“I know.”

Darlene hummed. “I hope it’s not because of his broken engagement.”

Sam didn’t want to tell her that was probably _exactly_ why. “He may just be busy.”

“He’s still welcome to join us. I know it may become difficult for him to make amends with the Barneses, but it would be the honorable thing to do.”

“They haven’t claimed insult from him. Steve still has the contract to honor with Mr. Barnes in regard to his farm’s ability to turn a profit.”

“I fear for him and his security.”

“As do I. I love him like a brother, Mother, but he’s stubborn, and there’s no reasoning with him.”

“Says my youngest son who still won’t drop into my friend Emily’s parlor and introduce herself to her youngest unwed daughter, as I suggested?”

“I’m not ready to wed yet, Mother!” Sam sputtered. “And we’re talking about Steve Rogers, not my own unwed state!”

“No, we’re talking about the grandchildren you have yet to give me.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Darlene reached up and tweaked his ear. “I want to finish my studies, Mother, before I visit any drawing rooms.”

“You’ll be a much sought-after guest once you do, if you accept the invitations and stop making yourself so scarce.” Then, Darlene had a thought. “I haven’t seen much of James Barnes, either, now that I think of it. Not in his family’s pew, at any rate.”

Sam had noticed, too, and could only surmise that perhaps the two men wished to avoid each other, or the resulting unpleasantness of their interrupted wedding. “Perhaps he’s going to services at another parish.”

“Perhaps.”

Sam only hoped James wasn’t dealing with his own mother’s efforts at finding him a different, more enthusiastic marital prospect. He knew Steve was toiling away to save his family’s farm and estate, still refusing Sam’s help at every turn, but it had been some time since he’d visited him at the farm. He mentioned that his new manager was involving himself in the daily operations, learning everything from the bottom up. Billy, of course, sounded less than impressed, but that didn’t surprise Sam, having grown used to Billy’s stubbornness, too, and his continued insistence that they didn’t need any help. Sam remembered the look of bleak heartbreak on James’ face when Steve didn’t show up to the chapel. It still haunted him, but his arms also remembered the feel of Steve sobbing in his arms, wrecked over his decision to annul the arrangement.

How much had Steve’s cold feet cost him? Only time and chance would tell, certainly.

*

Steve boasted about his supply of jars and sufficient planning to Bucky, but then he ended up having to go into town, anyway, to drop off his delivery of herbs to the pharmacy. Steve cleared his throat against the slight tickle there, suddenly wishing for a cup of hot tea. He regretted not wearing his muffler, but it didn’t seem quite cold enough to need it.

Dr. Erskin’s daughter, Samantha, met him there with a warm smile. “Good afternoon. You’re looking well, Steve.”

“Good afternoon. And you’re looking so grown up!”

“I’m only a few years younger than you, silly man,” she argued, but she looked pleased. “Did you bring us more willow bark?”

“Of course.” Steve unloaded the sacks and bundles from his wagon seat and brought them inside, setting them on her counter in the back of the apothecary, where the chemist mixed tinctures and potions. “This shop has grown.”

“It’s done well, but everyone here misses your mother so much. And she was always so kind to me.”

“Thank you. I think of her every day.”

“You work so hard. We hardly ever see you anymore.”

“A man’s work is never done when he owns a farm,” he offered, and Steve cleared his throat again. It felt even scratchier when he tried to speak. Samantha’s brow furrowed, and she gave his arm a gentle pat.

“Would you like a lozenge? We made them with honey?”

“That sounds wonderful. Please.”

She went into the back to fetch them, and the chemist wiped his hands on a small towel and gathered the cash box. He opened it and paid Steve the money for the delivery, smiling at him.

“You’ve been one of our best suppliers.”

“We’re here for whatever you need.”

“Our shop has always enjoyed a strong relationship with your family’s farm. You Rogerses are fine people, Steve.” He glanced around and told Steve quietly, “Despite the opinions of some.”

Steve’s brow beetled and his smile dropped.

“You have to understand that tongues wag about things they shouldn’t, but your wedding… it was unexpected.”

“I know that. I sometimes wish that… this isn’t something I feel I need to explain.”

“No, no! No need to explain. Grooms occasionally get cold feet. My only regret is that you missed a beautiful ceremony. The beginning of it, anyway.”

“Oh, Steve, it was lovely!” Samantha chimed in. “The flowers! The music. The groom’s sister, Rebecca, had such a sweet voice.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize you both had been invited?”

“George Barnes. He had an invitation delivered here. We enjoy a strong working relationship with his company, as well. You can certainly understand.”

“Of course.”

Then, Steve had a strange feeling of deja vu sweep over him. “You said the groom’s sister?”

“Yes. Rebecca. Lovely girl. George used to bring her into the shop sometimes when she was just a young, dimpled, freckled thing.”

“We call her Becca,” Samantha explained.

Where had Steve heard that nickname before?

He dismissed it and bade them goodbye before returning home. By the time he unhitched his wagon and stabled his horses, Bucky had left.

“Barton said he was needed elsewhere. Mentioned the Guthrie farm.” Billy chuckled dryly. “Can’t trust that one even to make jam.”

“Then, don’t let him run his cousin’s confectionery shop,” Steve suggested before he coughed. “Ugh,” he muttered. He spat out a dime-sized wad of phlegm into the dirt.

Billy frowned. “You’d better not be growing ill on me, Rogers. Not when we’ve so much harvesting and canning to finish.”

“Some hot tea, and I’ll be fit by morning,” Steve promised.

That claim would have held more water if Steve had actually stoked the fire in his stove, bundled himself more adequately, and piled under the covers shortly after finishing supper. Instead, he stayed awake, painting a new canvas, a rough, slightly abstract study of a young man writing at a ledger by a sunny window. The image of Bucky in his mind’s eye remained there as his brush stroked over his penciled lines. Steve toiled at it for several hours, unable to put it down until he realized dawn’s approach wasn’t as far away as he would have liked.

Once he cleaned his brushes and put away his paints, Steve noticed his old book of children’s stories on the shelf. He smiled and opened the old, cracked spine to where he had it marked with a folded letter that had yellowed with age, its words written in a child’s rough print.

“Can we be friends?” Steve murmured. 

Steve missed that young boy in the courtyard, before his father drove him away in a fine carriage, before Steve could accept his offer.


	11. Sweet, Sweet Delirium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky shows Steve the true meaning of “in sickness and in health” while still hiding his identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry. I can never resist some good ol’ fashioned hurt/comfort.
> 
> Yeah. I’m sorry…

Steve woke to find Billy in his kitchen, already dressed and preparing breakfast.

“Billy. You don’t have to do that, I’m sorry-” Steve’s words cut off on a yawn. Billy looked amused at Steve’s tousled state and his rumpled nightshirt. But he didn’t like the dark circles under his eyes or the croakiness of his voice.

“You sound all scratchy.”

“Nnngh…” He scrubbed his face with the heel of his hand. “Please tell me we have tea.”

“You tell me.” Billy rummaged through Steve’s cupboards and found his tea jar. “There’s still some in here.” Billy sniffed it. “Smells like lemongrass and eucalyptus.”

“Perfect.” That sounded like just the thing to soothe his throat. “I know I have some willow bark around, too.”

“Willow? That sounds like you aren’t well, Steve. Please tell me you’re well?”

“I’ll manage, Billy. We have a lot to do.”

Billy didn’t look convinced. “Sit down, then. Let’s get some food and tea into you and do the milking. Go, wash up and bundle yourself, Steve. Cover those birdy legs of yours.”

Steve gave him an indignant look but obeyed while Billy fried the eggs and sliced some bread. He hated to be found unprepared for the day more than being caught ungroomed. Billy had certainly seen him look worse, but Steve hated to waste valuable harvesting time. He washed up at his basin, using a small stub of soap and a muslin rag, made a halfhearted effort at brushing his hair, and dressed in warm layers of work clothes.

The longer Steve was awake, the more he noticed his runny nose and the scratchiness in his throat. He kept swiping at his nose as he ate the hot breakfast Billy set before him. At least his appetite was decent. Billy smiled at him as made the tea, adding willow bark to it and letting it steep.

“Let’s patch you together and move along, then.”

“I should have climbed into bed earlier,” Steve admitted. “I wanted to work on a painting, and it carried me away.”

“It boggles my mind that you still have energy to put brush to canvas after a day of work out here, Steve.”

“Art doesn’t stop for sleep. The painting would have invaded my dreams if I didn’t heed its call.”

Billy tsked. “You still sound all scratchy. Drink this. Put in lots of honey, too.” 

They finished breakfast and set the dishes aside before stomping outside into the frosty morning. _Gorgeous_. The sunrise threw furious, rich streaks of orange-gold and scarlet across the sky. Frost sparkled on the grass and leaves across the yard. Steve’s breath caught; it hit him, then. This was his. This was his mother’s legacy and his inheritance, _his_ responsibility, not merely a deed to be signed away to George Barnes. If he failed - no. No, he couldn’t. Not for Billy’s sake, nor for his own. Other businesses relied on the goods that he grew and sold, and Steve felt a sense of belonging in his community. He had nowhere to go if he lost the farm.

And it wasn’t as though he could just summon another convenient marriage prospect out of thin air.

“Sometimes, I wish you had said ‘I do’ to that Barnes fellow, after all.”

Billy’s words jerked Steve from his reveries as they entered the barn. “What’s that?”

“Could have been living like a toff, married to him,” Billy explained. “Especially if he has money like Barton.”

“Like Bucky?” Steve scoffed, brow furrowed. “Who knows how much money that would have even been? And who knows how it would have been, married to my landlord’s son!”

“Easier, no doubt.”

“You sound foolish, when you assume that, Billy. I have had the time to think about it. George Barnes offered me that contract when I was afraid, and desperate. He is a very shrewd, wily man to have done that.”

Billy made a sound of agreement as they moved their stools into the stalls and gathered pails. Steve warmed his hands and began to milk Bertie.

“One wonders what kind of man just wants to marry his son off like that, anyway, with the groom unseen.”

“We missed our introduction. It was all so rushed,” Steve said.

“You couldn’t have delayed it?”

“He set the terms and paid for the church, the flowers. I am just grateful that he didn’t claim insult.”

“Instead, he claimed your farm. Much better, that.”

“Damn it, Billy.”

“Sorry, Steve. Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s… you’re right. You’re right.”

“Come. Let’s get this done.”

They went about the chores, slopping the hogs, feeding the fowl, gathering eggs, and Steve plowed the back field so that he and Billy could clear it of weeds.

Steve sniffled and cleared his throat over and over, unable to ignore the urge. They remained busy, but feeling less than tip-top made the day seem long.

*

Billy kidded him a few more times about “We need to find you another rich toff’s son” by the time the sun set through the trees, and Steve fixed himself another cup of tea with their simple supper. He coughed as he cut up potatoes for stew.

“You sound wretched, Steve.”

“I know that.”

“Here, then. Let me finish that up.”

He shooed Steve away from the stove and pushed him into a chair, watching him as he continued chopping vegetables.

“The honey feels like it helps.”

“Then, put some into that cup, too.”

“Have you heard from Teddy?”

Billy failed to hide his smile. “Not so much, when we have been so busy.”

“But, you’d like to?”

Billy chuckled, rubbing the dark curls at his nape. “Quit it, Steve.”

“You like him. Spend some time in his parlor, or go on a walk with him.”

“Why? Are you trying to marry _me_ off, now?”

“You’re not a horse that I have to lead to water, Billy. You’re already thirsty enough; all you have to do is take a drink.”

“‘All you have to do is take a drink,’” Billy mimicked, and he rolled his eyes at his longtime friend. “Listen to yourself.”

“Bashful?”

“No.” But he averted his eyes and flushed to the roots of his hair. 

“Of course you are, Billy, look at you! I see you! You can’t hide from me, you _are_ bashful, and anyone can see how you two are around each other.”

“No less than anyone can see how you are around Barton.”

.Steve huffed, waving him off, but Billy grinned when he saw the color rising in Steve’s cheeks.

“You’re turning red as a beet, you bastard!”

“Billy, quit it!”

“No! You don’t like turnabout much, even when it’s fair play, Steve. Barton stares at you like a puppy, and I see you look at him, when _he’s_ not looking, like he hung the stars in the sky.” Billy chuckled as he took care of the dishes. “Maybe it’s just as well you didn’t marry George Barnes’ son, when you’ve got eyes for Clint’s fancy cousin.”

“Don’t be daft, Billy. I feel nothing of the sort! It’s… it’s _Bucky_. You said it yourself, he’s too fancy. Granted, he’s a fast study at some things, and he has a head for numbers, but when he first came here, it was a catastrophe!”

“Guess I could have told him that the gutter was loose before sending him up there to clean it. It _was_ when he kicked the ladder out from under himself when it pitched him backward, and you went out there and bellowed like someone scalded you when you caught him just dangling from the edge of the roof!” Billy cackled, and his eyes shone with mirth as he wiped their corners.

“He’s lucky he didn’t hurt himself, no thanks to you.”

“He’s still in one piece,” Billy said, shrugging. “And he’s learning, Steve, you just called him a quick study.”

“Hanging on for dear life from my roof and risking life and limb for the sake of the gutters isn’t how I planned to teach him, Billy. Look at you. You laugh, like a man who hasn’t a remorseful bone in his body.”

Billy sniggered and waved Steve off.

“And the point isn’t to teach him how to be a simple farm hand,” Steve added. 

That calmed Billy’s laughter. “No. He’s here to help Mr. Barnes run us off this land even _faster,_ more likely. Maybe he just plans to give the entire property to his son on a silver platter, whether you wed him or not.”

Steve paled. He rose from the kitchen table and stomped outside, slamming the door after himself.

“Steve… wait. _Steve._ Please, I’m _sorry._ Come back here!”

Because some part of Steve worried about that very thing. Every time they came up a bit short on their sales of goods in one column of the farm’s ledger, Steve lost a bit of sleep and felt icy dread seep into his chest.

“You’ve given me more of your opinion than I asked for, Billy.”

“Steve…”

“Don’t. Just don’t.”

Steve gathered up unsplit timbers from the stacks of wood and brought them to the chopping stump. Steve lined one up and split it perfectly with his father’s ax. He took the next and cleaved it into halves, and then fourths. Without asking for permission, Billy began to stack the neat logs.

“We have to make plans for if we lose the farm, Steve.”

“We won’t lose the farm, because we _can’t._ We just - no, _I_ just have to work harder.”

“You work hard enough!” Billy cried. “Damn it, Steve, we both do, but this farm is so much work for just the two of us! At least the Rasputins have cousins who help, and the Guthries are as much a mob as they are a family, they have enough hands to make light work -”

“Can we help what we’re given, Billy?” Steve continued to split logs. “Let me know if you need to quit. I won’t hold it against you.” Steve reached for another large piece, but Billy jerked it from his arms and threw it aside.

His eyes were blazing with the beginnings of tears.

“Don’t you _dare_.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Yes, I do. You can’t tell me what I don’t have to do, Steve. I’m in this with you, through sunshine and rain, do you hear me? I’m your friend. You’re like - like, my _brother_ , even if I already have one. You won’t cast me aside, and we _won’t fail._ ”

Steve reached out to him, but Billy kicked the short stack of logs aside in a furious tumble. With that, he went back inside the house to finish washing up. Steve’s stomach clenched when he heard Billy’s raspy, harsh breathing through the window, punctuated by rough sniffles. “Damn it,” Steve muttered. Shame washed over him in hot prickles.

Steve went back to chopping the firewood, and he stacked it all himself. Billy went out to the yard and checked on the hens, making sure they all made it back into the coop for the night. He knew that he wasn’t the only one who would be hurt by his failure.

Bucky had some good ideas, and Steve knew it might be time for him to start listening to them. Yet it was so hard, putting his trust in a man he was only beginning to know.

*

Steve’s sleep was broken and plagued by aches and pains that he blamed on a hard day’s work. He woke up sweaty and chilled, coughing and spitting out some phlegm when he got up to wash his face and rinse out his mouth. He sat up for a bit and considered his painting. He smiled at the contours and shading that brought the Bucky-like figure more and more to life on the canvas. How many times had Steve watched sunlight play over Bucky’s skin, bringing out golden glints in his hair and making those eyes of his so luminous? How strange to be so taken with someone that Steve considered a nuisance so much of the time, even on the best of days? 

Yet, he looked forward to his arrival every time he drove into the yard in his cousin’s old wagon. Steve would know the sounds of his steps at his threshold, entering his kitchen even while blindfolded. That slow-spreading smile that brought out his dimples and charming little crinkles around his eyes was something Steve longed to capture in charcoal or pencil one day, but it felt like a foolish notion; surely, Bucky would never agree to such a thing if Steve asked.

Steve read a bit from his old story book. “The Red Shoes” with its lessons about putting work before pleasure resonated with him, but Steve wondered, as he read it, if Bucky danced. He had the air of culture about him, not just as an educated man, but as someone who was accustomed to quality and opportunity. Perhaps he could afford to put pleasure first. George Barnes no doubt paid him a generous salary; Bucky Barton didn’t look like a man who had ever gone to sleep hungry.

Steve went back to bed, chilled by the night air, and this time, he slept a little more comfortably, but he still didn’t wake up feeling rested.

Over the next two days, Bucky noticed the difference in Steve. He heard him coughing in the hen house as they gathered the eggs.

“You sound terrible, Stevie.”

“All I need is some hot soup, and I will be fit again in no time.”

“When do you plan to actually sit down and have some?” Bucky accused.

“You sound like Billy,” Steve complained.

“Don’t insult me so,” Bucky joked, and Billy smiled and nodded, but he also watched Steve with concern. He was still coughing and clearing his throat, and the latter sounded like it took him more effort than usual. His cheeks were flushed and he was sweating considerably, even though the air was still brisk and windy. Bucky frowned when Steve turned away from him and back to his task. Steve waited until he was outside to spit out the gout of mucus he coughed up onto the dirt.

“Just what he needs right now,” Billy muttered.

“Could we hire some help?” Bucky asked. “Even if only for a while?”

“Steve wouldn’t hear of it, and with what, may I ask? With what funds? We’re skimping by as it is!” He waved in the general direction of the yard. “Look, the turkey trough’s running with diamonds! And I’ll just peel off some of the roof shingles, they’re made of solid gold! Won’t we be all set, then!”

Bucky sighed. “Well, I dreamt that the sky rained down silver coins last night. Perhaps if I close my eyes again, they will return, spread all over the yard.” 

Billy snorted. Bucky shrugged at him and decided to slop the pigs.

Bucky went over the ledger later that afternoon, looking for unaccounted for money in each columns, wondering where they could move things around to afford some hired hands. But, as Billy claimed, Bucky’s numbers confirmed. There was no way to manage it unless he used some of his own allowance and hired them himself. Which meant that his ruse wouldn’t hold water, and he would break his contract with Father. He was already breaking it, certainly, spending time with Steve at all. “Bucky Barton” was an educated man of questionable means; James Barnes was the son of a successful businessman, his family was well known in the community, and tongues would wag if anyone realized that the two men were one and the same.

He set it aside just as Steve entered the room. “How are we looking?”

“Lean, I’m afraid.”

“Yet, you’re still here. Am I not enough of a lost cause for you to give up and disappear?”

“You were never a lost cause, Steve, but you give me too little credit if you think me the sort to give up-” Bucky almost said “on you.” He managed, “On your farm.”

“I suppose I _do_ give you too little credit. You’re still no cook, however, if that jam was any proof.”

“You don’t need me for my cooking.”

Steve chuckled, but it turned into a cough. Bucky reached out and grasped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Steve felt so solid and warm, with muscles carved from daily hard work, but his features looked strained. His eyes were red-rimmed and tired, worrying Bucky. “Not unless I need you to kill me.”

“Stop that, Stevie.”

Bucky made lists of supplies that the farm needed, as well as items that Steve could use around the house. He didn’t have to divulge his plans to Steve or to Billy. He could simply replace the nearly empty kerosene can with a full one, and if the sack of flour replenished itself overnight, well, that hardly needed explaining, did it?

*

When the sun set, Bucky went inside to tell Steve he would be back in the morning, but he found him sprawled back in his chair, his stocking feet propped up on the hassock. He was snoring, mouth slightly agape, chest rising and falling evenly and his face tipped to the side. Bucky felt a wave of protectiveness and affection wash over him at the sight. Of _course_ he was worn out. Bucky didn’t like seeing him uncovered, still only wearing his work clothes but no jacket. He ducked back into the corridor of the house and found a narrow closet, and Bucky smiled when he saw the folded quilt inside. He tread quietly back into the sitting room and gently draped the quilt over Steve and tucked it around him. Billy was still outside packing up his own wagon, and Bucky didn’t resist the urge to stroke his hair. Steve smacked his lips in his sleep and leaned into Bucky’s touch, making Bucky snatch his hand away. He wondered for a moment when the last time was that Steve received any casual affection. 

“Good night, Stevie,” Bucky murmured as he backed out of the room and let the kitchen door click shut behind him.

*

Steve woke up some time later, alone in the dark. Billy left the lantern lit for him, and Steve realized he needed to build himself a fire in the stove to stay warm for the night. The lantern threw a golden, faint glow over his furnishings and Sarah’s old knick-knacks. Steve sighed; this was what he stood to lose if he couldn’t make his farm turn a profit. He couldn’t stomach the thought of selling off any of his family’s heirlooms just to survive. Not when it was all he had left of his parents.

The feeling of the quilt’s warmth and weight around him stirred him from his dark thoughts. Someone had covered him up. Billy?

Bucky?

The mere thought of it made him blush. Then, Steve smiled.

*

In the morning, Bucky arrived, but the only lantern lit shone through the kitchen window. Bucky hitched his wagon and headed inside, where he found Billy looked distressed, and instantly, he felt dread bloom in his chest.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Steve?”

“He’s not well. You know he’s usually up by now,” Billy told him. 

“Blast,” Bucky muttered. There was no scent of coffee or tea, no cooking smells, and the outdoor lanterns weren’t lit. None of the chores had been started, and Bucky heard the cows inside the barn lowing and mooing. “You know he’s not well?”

“He’s not getting up from bed,” Billy explained, as though Bucky was a child of five. “Do you think he is in a sound state of health?”

Bucky felt panic flare in his chest, and he glared at Billy before he rushed into the corridor. “Steve?!” he called out. “STEVIE!” And his eyes flitted about, looking for a bedroom, but there was only a suite on the first floor that lay empty, filled with old, dusty furnishings. Bucky found the stairwell and bolted up to the second floor, following the sounds of hacking and coughing. The recoil of Steve’s inhaled breath sounded labored and coarse. “Stevie,” Bucky cried as he barged his way into the smaller bedroom. Bucky found him huddled in the brass-framed bed, leaning over the edge as he swiped at his mouth with a handkerchief.

His complexion was pale and he had darker circles under his eyes than he had the day before. Steve’s skin gleamed with a clammy sheen, and his blond hair looked dark with sweat and was plastered to his brow. “Stevie…” Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, worried and fretful as he listened to Steve cough and gasp.

“You look dreadful.”

“Oh. Well, that’s hardly surprising, Bucky. I _feel_ dreadful. Leave it to you to be-” Steve gagged and coughed, and he hacked up more mucus. Bucky handed him a nearby basin to spit into and rubbed his back through the covers.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing, Bucky. I just need some tea, and in a while, I can… get…”

“No, you can’t. You can’t, Stevie. You need medicine, and rest. Do you need me to have a physician come?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve rasped, and he smiled mirthlessly at Bucky. His eyes were watery and luminous in the weak light of the room. “I can’t afford a visit from the doctor. I have tea in the house, and some of the herbs that my mother used to use whenever I fell ill as a child.”

“Herbs. Stevie, you may need more than that!”

“I told you, Bucky, I cannot afford a visit from the doctor, and I will start the day soon.” Yet Steve remained tucked in bed and rolled over to his other side, giving Bucky his back.

“You call _me_ ridiculous. You will stay in this bed.”

“Not while there are fields that need plowing…”

“Damn the plow, Steve. You are staying in this bed, even if I have to see to it, myself.”

Steve rolled back and faced him, amusement and annoyance mingling across his features. “Even if you have to ‘see to it?’”

“I’m going to bring you up your tea, Stevie, and fix you something to eat.”

“Oh, good Lord in heaven…”

“Or, Billy. Perhaps _he_ can prepare you some food, if you like. But I can manage the tea. You, however, are staying in this bed.”

“No, I am going to dress and wash up-”

“No.” Bucky’s voice was firm and insistent, and he gave Steve a stern look. Steve huffed in amusement. When he tried to throw aside the covers, Bucky gave his chest a little shove. “I said, _no_.” Steve looked surprised at his vehemence and his strength as he found that he had to fight Bucky’s repeated, firm shove.

“Those smooth hands of yours won’t be able to keep me here in bed. Nor your smooth words.”

“Your chest sounds like a smith’s bellows,” Bucky told him. “You’re pale, coughing, and look a terrible sight.”

“I don’t have to look handsome to take care of my farm.”

“Your farm will have to take care of itself without you. Billy and I will manage for today.”

“Bollocks,” Billy interjected from the doorway as he brought Steve a cup of tea and a slice of bread spread thickly with jam. “I can manage. I’ll do what I can, Steve. Bucky, just move along, now. Steve doesn’t need you to be a pretty, fancy nuisance-”

“Fancy,” Bucky spat. He rose from the bed and rounded on Billy. “Give me that. Go. Get out.” He took the cup and snatched the plate from his hands, and color rose up into Bucky’s cheeks. His jaw was set at a mulish tilt, and Billy huffed at Bucky’s angry stance and the tightness around his mouth, the anger flashing in his eyes. “Steve isn’t leaving this bed, and my patience has grown thin with your claims of how useless I am, Billy Kaplan. There’s a field that needs plowing. Deal with that however you like.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Oh, but I can. Just ask my employer. I’m here to manage the ongoing operation of this farm and estate.”

“Manage it,” Billy hissed. “Pretty-faced eejit. Wasting our time. Fine, then. Stay here. _Watch him._ ” He nodded to Steve, who was watching the two of them warily from the bed, sitting up and reaching for the tea.

“Billy,” Steve pleaded, but Billy turned on his heel and thundered downstairs. Steve and Bucky took the sight of him, anger flashing in those dark blue eyes, chest thrown out like a rooster and fists clenched, to keep, letting it linger between them as they stared each other down.

“Don’t make this difficult, Steve.”

“There’s nothing difficult about me finishing my tea and breakfast, washing up, and going down those stairs once I get my bearings, Bucky. Just you wait.”

*

Minutes later, Bucky heard Steve retching and coughing from downstairs as he washed the breakfast dishes. “Just you wait,” Bucky murmured, shaking his head. He dashed upstairs with a clean towel, and when he reached Steve, he found him shaking, sweating, and the basin filled with sick.

“Damn it, Stevie…”

“Didn’t expect it all to come back up…”

“You’re burning up…” Bucky hurried to him and gently peeled back the heaviest top quilt, and then folded the rest of the covers down around Steve’s waist.

“No, Bucky, no, please don’t,” Steve insisted. “I’m cold, I’m so chilled…”

“I know what it looks like when my sister has a fever,” Bucky argued, but his voice was gentle. “You can’t stay overbundled. We need to cool you down, Steve.”

Steve’s teeth chattered, and he moaned in protest as Bucky dampened the towel from the pitcher of water at the bedside and swabbed at Steve’s face and neck.

“Stop babying me. I can take care of myself.”

“This is one time when I hope to convince you that you don’t have to, Steve.”

Steve shook his head, and his eyes, already watery, glistened up at Bucky. He coughed into his sleeve and then laid back as Bucky continued to wipe at his damp hair. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Managing the farm isn’t just about reconciling your ledger, Steve.”

Steve scoffed. “What are you implying, Bucky?”

“Keeping you here in bed shouldn’t be much more difficult than chasing the turkeys off of the roof, should it? I’m here to manage the farm, but perhaps you’re the most vital part of it.”

Steve huffed, and the corner of his mouth fought the first tugs of a smile. “You just compared me to one of my turkeys. Don’t expect me to thank you for it.”

“When have I expected thanks since I’ve been here? Let me clean you up. Damn it, you feel too hot. I’m sorry, but these covers will have to come off.”

*

The rest of the morning dragged by, filled with bickering and Bucky pacing the floors, making frequent trips into the corridor and downstairs to the kitchen. He fixed Steve some tea with willow bark in an attempt to bring down his fever, wrestled him out of his night clothes, and swabbed him down with more damp, cool cloths and witch hazel. Steve’s skin was flushed and clammy, and the sight of him clad in just his breeches made Bucky’s gut clench. Bucky normally appreciated Steve’s rugged handsomeness, but the reality of him like this was intimate and strange, wholly awkward, and that Bucky was in this small, confined space with that man he nearly _married_. Yet, staring down at him, fretting over him, brought with it the realization that _Bucky couldn’t afford to fail Steven Rogers_ at any cost.

Billy worked outside, plowing the field and digging potatoes. Bucky felt guilty that he had to work alone, but he knew Billy was just as torn with the need to see to Steve’s needs and completing the daily chores so they didn’t fall behind.

“Sit up, Steve. I have a fresh shirt.”

“Hurry up with it. I’m too cold, Bucky, I’m too damned cold!”

Steve’s teeth were still chattering, and Bucky reached for him, tugging Steve upright by his arms. He quickly brought the shirt around him, and Steve trembled and shivered while Bucky fed his arms in through the sleeves; he rubbed his back soothingly and fretted to himself, _He’s still too damned hot._ His breathing was still ragged, and sitting up made him cough more. Bucky emptied Steve’s basin again after helping him rinse out his mouth. “I hate this,” Steve rasped.

“What? Being ill? You can’t help that.”

“No. This. Being… up here, when you and Billy… Bucky, you shouldn’t have to do this.”

“Take care of you?” Bucky chuckled and ruffled Steve’s hair. “What else was I going to do today? Ruin some more jam? Fall off the roof? Get kicked by one of the cows?”

Steve snorted. Bucky fluffed his pillows and had Steve lie back, and he covered him with the sheet and the lightest blanket, only up to his chest. 

“I’m here, because I want to be here, Steve.”

*

Bucky continued to watch him, helping him down to the outhouse when he needed to relieve himself, stoking up the fire in the stove to keep the house warm enough for Steve not to need to bundle himself so much, and boiling some leftover roast for broth. Billy noticed what he was doing and took over that task, cutting up some potatoes and onions and adding some herbs to the pot.

“It would be nice if it was at least edible,” Billy told him.

“Wouldn’t it, now?”

But there was no heat in Bucky’s voice. He put the soiled towels in the wash tub and filled it with fresh water, making generous use of Steve’s lye soap and the washboard.

“You’re actually good at that.”

“I watched the servants often enough.”

“Servants. What a life you live.”

“I grew up having them. But, I live on my own, now. I can do for myself.”

“Sure you can, Fancy Pants.” But Billy took the damp items from the washtub and hung them on the line for Bucky, helping just as quickly as he offered criticism. Bucky realized that Billy was just as worried for Steve’s health.

“Has he ever been like this before?”

“Yeah. At least once a year. More often than that, when he was small. That was why his ma worked in the apothecary. She learned the best way to care for him from them. Mrs. Rogers knew the proper herbs and tinctures and poultices, she had a true gift.” Billy nodded to a framed daguerrotype of a young woman that hung on the wall. She was no older than eighteen, and she held a baby in a flowing, ruffled christening gown on her lap. “And she was lovely.”

Sarah Rogers. Blonde, petite, and with eyes like Steve’s. Her smile brought out dimples in her cheeks. She radiated kindness and graciousness, and Bucky wished he could have known her.

“She’s been gone long?”

“Steve lost her when he was sixteen.”

It wasn’t unheard of for a young man of that age to start off their adult life of independence at that age, surely, but it should have involved moving away from home to go to university, or to find employment and his own bachelor’s flat. Steve’s life took a tragic turn when the responsibility for the entire farm was thrust upon him right on the heels of losing his mother.

“Steve doesn’t like asking for help. Never has,” Billy went on to explain. “Makes him uneasy. And like less of a man.”

“You will never convince me that anyone thinks of Steve as ‘less of a man’ under any circumstance. I can’t imagine that he would let anyone linger under that delusion.”

“You sound like you would defend him.”

“In a second. Every time.”

“You haven’t even known him that long,” Billy mused, but when Bucky looked up from stirring the broth, he saw Billy’s soft smile.

“This didn’t take long, Billy.”

“What didn’t?”

“Feeling this way.” Bucky tore up a few leaves of thyme and threw them into the broth. “About Steve.”

They shared a pointed look, and Billy chuckled as he headed back outside.

“Knew that anyway about you two. You’re both absolute eejits.”

*

Bucky brought more pillows into Steve’s room, borrowing them from Sarah’s old room, and he propped and rearranged him in bed. Steve grumbled up at him at the annoying intervention and being shifted once he had finally gotten comfortable, but Bucky retucked his blankets and fought the urge to smooth back his hair.

“You don’t have to hover over me, Bucky.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Steve. I will let you rest for a while; try to sleep if you can.”

Bucky straightened up the room, removing Steve’s soiled laundry and dirty dishes once more, refilling his water pitcher and pulling the door closed behind him. The sun was lower in the sky, and Bucky realized that they lost most of the day. He knew Steve was fretting about it, and Bucky pondered how to ease his worries.

He left the farm a few minutes later, calling out to Billy, who was gathering the last of the apples. 

“I’m leaving now, Billy! I have an errand in town.”

“Guess I’ll keep an eye on him while you run off,” Billy called back as he descended the ladder. But he knew Billy wasn’t being hostile. He was just worried and tired.

*

Bucky returned in the morning after a fretful night, and the ride over to Steve’s farm was anxious and cold. Bucky hoped that Billy stoked up the fire before he left, but when he arrived, he found Billy looking tousled and disheveled. He yawned and waved to Bucky as he fried some eggs.

“I never went home,” he said in lieu of hello.

Bucky sighed in relief. “Good.”

“There’s so much to do today…”

“And you’re going to have help.”

“What? From you?”

“In the house, but I mean the chores. I’ve managed to hire help for the day, or even the next few days if Steve is ailing that long.”

Billy made a disparaging sound. “We haven’t the money to hire anyone.”

“I do, and what’s the point in having it if I can’t bring in good help?”

“The point is, that doesn’t help us make a _profit_ if we have to take those expenses out of what little we bring in.”

“It’s my money, from my own salary. You remember my employer, Mr. George Barnes? He pays a generous wage-”

“Does he?” Billy challenged. “You think you can convince me of that, when we are just barely getting by?”

Bucky almost rushed to defend his father, but he bit back that impulse and blew out a slow, calming breath to compose himself. “Billy. We will manage. I have found us some help. All you have to do is accept it.”

“They won’t know the farm, or how we do things around here.”

“Then, teach them.”

“If they end up just as fancy and addle-brained as you, then I’m out of luck.”

Bucky sighed as he climbed the stairs and checked on Steve. He found him sleeping peacefully and gently retucked his blankets around him. The scant sensation woke him, and he squinted up at Bucky in a manner that he found adorable. “Morning, already?”

“You must have rested.”

“Barely,” he yawned. “Coughed my throat raw.” His voice sounded all croaky, confirming this.

“Then, let me make you some tea.”

“Broth,” Steve argued. “I can’t stomach tea right now. I need something salty, if you don’t mind, Bucky. And the broth wasn’t too bad, yesterday.”

“See, Stevie? I didn’t poison you with my terrible cooking.”

“Not yet. But, this is a new day.”

“Are you feverish?”

“I’m not sure, but I ache all over, Bucky.”

Bucky frowned, and he reached down and felt the sides of Steve’s neck and laid a cool palm on his forehead. “You’re a bit too warm for my liking, Stevie.”

“No more cold cloths, Bucky, please…”

Bucky sighed. “We’re about to have another unpleasant day together, Stevie, and for that, I’m sorry.”

*

The day dragged on much like the previous one had, but this time, they had entertainment in the form of Billy’s bickering with the hired help out in the yard as they carried on with the chores.

“Sounds like they’re getting on like newlyweds,” Steve joked. “You really should have spoken to me about hiring someone, Bucky, before you brought them here.”

“And you would have refused help, and Billy would have had to manage this by himself.”

“I should be downstairs so that he doesn’t have to.”

“Well, he doesn’t have to, now. And there we are.”

“Are you always this bossy?”

“I just like to have my way. Especially when I’m right.”

Steve’s expression was stubborn as Bucky helped him sit up and take more of the broth. “You must _always_ think you’re right, then…”

Steve’s eyes were a bit glassy, and his breathing still sounded thick and wet. He only managed a few sips of the broth before another coughing fit made him bring it back up. Bucky rushed to get the basin into his hands and rubbed his broad back. Steve gasped as he sat back into the pillows, closing his eyes. “I hate this, Bucky.”

“I know you do, Stevie.” Bucky wiped his face with a clean towel. His touch was gentle as he smoothed back his hair.

*

“That Barnes fellow was mincing his words when he told us about this place. How have they managed it this long with only two people?” Hank, the new farm hand, asked his companion as they baled the hay in the loft.

“Hush,” Scott told him. “Remember, he wants us to call him Barton.”

“Barnes, Barton… it’s nearly the same. Why does he need a different identity? George Barnes’ name carries influence around here, so why hide it?”

“Why question the man who is paying us so generously to be here? If his son wants to go by Barton, then Barton it is.”

“Shush, now, there’s Billy.”

Billy came in and shoved the pitchfork at Scott. “Go ahead and muck out the stalls. Make yourself useful. I’ll be out in the field with the plow.”

“I suppose we can, after we finish our tea party,” Scott joked. Billy looked less than impressed.

“At least you aren’t as fancy as Barton,” he muttered before he left.

Hank and Scott exchanged amused looks.

“I’m not telling him,” Hank murmured. “Even though I don’t know why.”

*

Steve occasionally drifted off to sleep, and almost every time, Bucky was there when he woke. Worry etched fine lines around his eyes and mouth, and he was always ready with compresses, medicine and tea. The direction of light flowing into the room seemed to shift every time Steve opened his eyes. When he stared up at Bucky, all of his edges appeared out of focus and softly blurred. Bucky helped him downstairs twice to the outhouse, bundling him up for the trip and then stripping him down again when he returned to bed, back to just breeches and his crumpled shirt. Steve’s legs were shaky, and Bucky supported him, letting Steve lean into his bulk. Billy’s eyes watched them with concern. Hank and Scott waved to them from the yard as they refilled water troughs and slopped the pigs.

Troublesome dreams made Steve mutter in his sleep.

“Not a baby,” Steve rasped as he burrowed back under the blankets.

“What, Steve?”

“Not. Baby. James. He said so.”

Bucky froze at the sound of his birth name.

“In his letter. Told me. Wants to be my friend…”

“You’re rambling, Steve. You still feel too hot. Let’s clean you up again.”

Steve rolled over and smiled up at him. “Bucky. What… pretty eyes.”

Bucky chuckled. He had glimpsed himself in the mirror and noticed how bloodshot they are from too little sleep. “You flatter me.”

“Pretty Bucky…”

“You sound ridiculous.”

“Pretty,” Steve insisted, and he reached up to pat Bucky’s cheek, something easily accomplished while Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, leaning over Steve as he unbuttoned his shirt. Bucky spread the shirt open and helped Steve out of it, and this time, Steve didn’t fight him, but he still shivered from the drafty air. Bucky could appreciate Steve’s masculine beauty, his sculpted muscles, the sprays of tiny freckles wherever the sun had tanned his skin, the long, tapered legs and narrow hips, the breadth of his shoulders that would fill out a proper suit so beautifully, if Steve ever had the opportunity to wear one. His eyes fluttered shut, and Bucky noticed the long, curling sandy lashes and the little furrow between his brows as he bathed him.

“Does this make us friends, Bucky?”

“This? One would hope so, Stevie.”

Friends.

Did one’s friend fight lustful thoughts while caring for them in their time of need? Bucky wished someone would justify it for him, but he would never ask the question out loud.

“I’d like us to be friends, Bucky.”

“Then, we are, Stevie.”

“I won’t be such a burden to you tomorrow.”

“You aren’t right now. Not in the least.” Bucky ran the damp cloth over Steve’s bare chest, over his ribcage and belly, smoothing it over his shoulders and arms. He dipped it into his water basin and wrung it out, swiping it over Steve brow and smoothing it over his sweaty hair.

Steve drifted back to sleep, waking for medicine and tea as the day wore on. And every time, Bucky was there, with his soft, gruff tone and gentle hands, and Steve felt safe, even while his strange dreams plagued him.

Sometimes, he saw Bucky. But then, the dream would shift, and he would find himself back in the schoolhouse, staring at James, the new boy, tall and lean, dressed in finer clothing than anyone else, with eyes like tourmalines.

Steve woke again, crabby and petulant. “Ache all over.”

“Your cough sounds looser,” Bucky told him.

“I still hate this. Hate being stuck in bed.”

The sun had already set, telling Steve he lost another day. Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed.

“You’re ailing.”

“I’m bored,” Steve argued.

Bucky huffed. “Well. What would help?”

“My head throbs too much to read.”

Bucky lit the lantern and skimmed through the books on Steve’s shelf. He smiled when he found a familiar one and pulled it down. “I had a copy of this one, once. I loved it.” He sat on the edge of the bed, twisting his body around to fold his leg up until his knee rested against Steve’s bulk. “Which story is your favorite?”

Steve laughed; it was a raspy sound. “Mother Hulda.”

“I don’t remember that one.”

“You will. Go ahead. Read that one, please.”

Bucky skimmed the table of contents and found that story, and he was surprised to find a folded piece of paper marking that very spot. He set it aside on the vanity and began to read. “A widow had two daughters; one was pretty and industrious, the other was ugly and lazy. And as the ugly one was her own daughter, she loved her much the best, and the pretty one was made to do all the work, and be the drudge of the house.”

Bucky read the story, musing to himself that it seemed vaguely familiar. Steve chuckled over his favorite parts, especially when Bucky changed his voice, making it higher as he read him the part about the bread crying out to be removed from the oven.

“I think Becca used to like this story,” Bucky remarked.

“Keep reading. Get to the good parts.”

Bucky snickered. Steve reached out and patted Bucky’s knee, urging him to continue. The contact made Bucky’s flesh prickle in all of the right ways. 

Steve was soothed by Bucky’s deep voice rumbling through him and his warmth radiating toward him through the layers of blankets. Both men chuckled over the momentum of the story, of the widow’s natural daughter’s casual cruelty and laziness, knowing that the consequences were coming next, sticky and shameful. Bucky patted Steve’s hip through the blankets where Steve lay curled on his side, his body a C-shaped curve while he propped himself on one arm. Bucky’s storytelling was underscored by Steve’s occasional coughs and raspy breathing, but he appreciated the calm between them and their lingering closeness.

Bucky read him more of the stories until Steve dozed off, and Bucky realized Steve’s hand rested on his knee, gently clasping it in his sleep. Bucky clapped the book shut and set it down, and his eyes fell back on the folded paper. He was about to replace it where he found it, at the beginning of Mother Hulda, but curiosity got the best of him. He unfolded it and scanned the yellowed paper, eyes skimming over the childish, strange handwriting.

Suddenly, Bucky fell back through time, and his own claim that he made to his sister haunted him. He remembered the scratch of a pen and the scent of ink as he scrawled the note in his best print, once, away from prying eyes.

_That wasn’t the same person. It couldn’t have been. If you knew Steve Rogers, the man whose farm I’ve been breaking my back to save, you would never confuse him with that boy, Becca._

He was no longer towheaded, but had hair of dark, honey gold. Steve was tall, massively built, robust, no longer cherub-faced and tiny. When George Barnes moved them away, fresh from learning his parents had died, he sent Bucky away to Eton, away from his newfound friends and the younger, scrappy boy who seemed to find Bucky so intriguing, constantly stealing looks at him from across the school room. Bucky shook his head and wondered how fate had brought them full circle like this, and how it could be so fickle.

All he’d ever wanted was to befriend Steve, and to protect him, and now, he owned the burden of trying to manage his farm and save it from his father’s clutches and the bank, despite how it compromised his loyalty to Bucky’s own family.

Worse yet, he was feeling things for Steve, all while maintaining a ruse. 

In an ideal world, Bucky should have been able to call on Steve following proper introductions. They should have attended balls and parlors and drawing rooms and chatted over cognac and canapes. They should have grown to know each other slowly, as prospective matches and no secrets between them. Bucky’s half-formed plan seemed to be running wild and out of his control.

His heart swelled at the sight of the man lying curled against Bucky’s hip, reaching for Bucky in sleep. “Damn it, Steve,” he whispered.

Oh, good Lord. Bucky had fallen in love with him.


	12. Civil Disobedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Is he really managing Steve’s farm, then?”
> 
> “Managing it? He practically lives there,” Clint said.
> 
> “Almost as if he wanted a second chance,” Scott mused.
> 
> “At what?”
> 
> “Marriage.”
> 
> “Or courtship,” Hank added.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a pun. Sort of. Sorry, I’m trash. Moving on…

Nicholas Fury nodded his thanks for Wanda as she brought him the cup of tea on a delicate saucer, bobbing a quick curtsy before she left the parlor. George filled his pipe, packing it with the expensive tobacco.

“You’re looking well, Nicholas.”

“Well enough, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’m eager to hear your report.”

“Perhaps as eager as I am to share it. Even if I was initially puzzled when you hired me to follow your son.”

George smiled, nodding as he lit the pipe. He blew a slow plume of smoke and leaned back into his chair. “He’s kept himself scarce these past few months. My daughter tells me precious little of his whereabouts or activities, perhaps out of sibling loyalty. Those two have always been thick as thieves.”

“Your son isn’t a thief, however. Yet you want me to investigate his activities.”

“His comings and goings,” George argued. “Because there are places I would rather he not go.”

“Then, my report should either please you immeasurably, or leave you most disappointed, sir.”

*

Scott and Hank enjoyed their ales in the gaming room, glad to finish the long week of hard work and finally relax. They were chilled and they warmed their hands by the fire, occasionally finding themselves buffeted by the growing crowd. 

“I shooed the turkey from the edge of the trough again.”

“Stupid beast is just waiting to fall in and drown when we aren’t looking,” Hank agreed, raising his glass to his friend. 

“My back aches, but we finished what needed to be done today. That makes this ale taste even better.”

“I may need brandy to chase away the chill.”

“You claim to need brandy even when it isn’t cold outside.”

Clint wandered inside and hung up his coat on a rack near the door, loosening the knitted muffler around his neck. Scott beamed when he saw him, and he called out to him, waving him over to their table. “BARTON! CLINT! Come, sit with us and have a drink!”

Clint’s grin was puckish and eager as he approached, and Hank beckoned for him to sit in the last empty chair. “What trouble have you both been up to?”

“No trouble, merely honest work,” Hank explained. 

“Now that, I find hard to believe, McCoy.”

“You wound me, Barton.”

“Barton, perhaps you would like to tell us more about your cousin over a brandy.” Scott grinned at Clint as he suggested this.

“My cousin? What on earth are you on about- oh.”

“Bucky Barton, one of your wealthy, well-connected relations that you haven’t mentioned until now,” Hank teased.

“Hush,” Clint scolded, and he glanced around the room, hoping that no one who recognized him was listening. “Why are you asking about Bucky?”

“Because he hired us to help on the Rogers farm while Steve was ailing,” Scott told him. “Steve was in a bad way, and you know he only has Billy to help him.”

“Because he’s damned stubborn, too stubborn and muleheaded to ask for help,” Hank added. “So his farm’s new manager took us on and paid us a rather generous wage. Billy wasn’t impressed, from what we gathered. Kept calling us ‘useless eejits’ and got his breeches all in a twist.”

“But we managed the last of the harvest and the autumn planting. Pruned the orchards. And we managed to put a new roof on the barn. Everything’s tip-top and in its place.”

Clint nodded and paid his server a shiny coin for the brandy when it arrived. 

“So, Clint,” Scott pried, “why is James Barnes going by a different name?”

“Why _your_ name?” Hank added.

“I don’t have the faintest idea why, but… for some reason, he doesn’t want Steve to know who he is, and given who he is, and what happened at the church, that may be for the best for now. And honestly, it’s none of our business. Not yours, not mine. And we need to keep James Barnes’ name out of our mouths.”

Scott leaned in, eyes dancing, and his smile was conspiratorial. “He was engaged to wed Steve, wasn’t he?”

“I attended the wedding,” Clint told him.

“The wedding that wasn’t.”

Clint made a sound of disgust. “Stop that. James was shattered that day. You didn’t see his face. He was stood at the altar, dressed in his wedding finery, and his groom never walked down the aisle. If you think that didn’t destroy him, then you have no soul.”

“Is he really managing Steve’s farm, then?”

“Managing it? He practically lives there,” Clint said.

“Almost as if he wanted a second chance,” Scott mused.

“At what?”

“Marriage.”

“Or courtship,” Hank added.

Clint laughed. “Courtship. All those two do is bicker. All I know is that I received the wedding invitation one day, after what had to be the shortest engagement possible, with no whiff of their past courtship, no news of either of them in each other’s parlors, no word from the matchmaker on how they suit. Yet, when I saw James at the altar, before we found out that he’d been abandoned, he looked… well. He looked _radiant_. Nervous and tongue-tied, but he was eager to be wed.”

“Maybe Rogers’ farm was meant to be his dowry,” Scott joked.

“Don’t be stupid, Scott.” Hank cuffed him in the shoulder.

From a few feet away, Teddy Altman listened with avid interest, but glanced away when Clint caught his eye. The men’s conversation was held in low tones, barely audible over the noise and chatter of the gaming room. Teddy went back to his game of whist with his friends, but his interest was piqued as soon as he heard Billy’s name mentioned. He craved the chance to see him again, as their time together was always scarce, and precious. Billy worked so hard and had no time for leisure, and Teddy often only saw him at the farmer’s market helping Steve to sell their wares. 

Teddy knew George Barnes from word of mouth. His family’s farm wasn’t associated with George’s holdings, but he knew from the local gossip that Rebecca Barnes was having her first Season in the spring. And who _hadn’t_ heard about James Barnes, young graduate from Pembroke and George’s only heir, a very eligible catch on the marriage market, whose groom abandoned him on the morning of their nuptials? The scandal starred in every drawing room tea for _weeks_.

Teddy couldn’t fathom how James Barnes managed to live within the same community as the man who rejected him, enduring constant reminders of that slight whenever he conducted his business with his father’s associates. Granted, with his education, background, and family’s wealth, James could go wherever he pleased, certainly. Teddy knew James extended his father’s reach across his farms by managing them and reporting their activity to George, but this new information - this “Bucky Barton” working on Steve’s farm as a laborer, managing his accounts - confused him. And it begged for clarification.

Who better to clear this up for him than a certain charming, dark-haired young man whose company he craved, anyway?

*

Clint watched Teddy Altman leave the gaming room and felt a frisson of panic.

“Blast,” Clint hissed.

“What?”

“The two of you, what’s wrong with you? We can’t talk about this out in the open, next time. That was Teddy!”

“So?”

“So? Scott, Teddy, _Billy’s_ Teddy? The one who’s always making calf eyes at him at the market? He was close enough to hear what we discussed.”

“Maybe he wasn’t,” Hank said hopefully. But he didn’t look convinced, himself.

“If he was, we have to pray for his silence. I don’t know what purpose Bucky’s false identity serves yet, but it can’t last. I worry about what will happen when Steve finds out that the man he refused to marry has shown up to his home every day, working on his land, eating at his table.”

“You’re making me regret asking you about your cousin so much right now, Clint,” Scott mused as he downed his drink.

*

Steve rose and stretched, groaning at the soreness in his muscles, but the morning promised to be beautiful as the rose-gold glow painted the clouds outside. He still felt a bit of residual congestion, but he was breathing much more clearly, his fever had broken, and his appetite came back in rapacious fashion. “I can’t remember the last time you liked my cooking this much,” Billy remarked as he dished up more of the roasted chicken, bread and vegetables onto Steve’s plate the night before.

“Of course I like it,” he mumbled as he chewed. “Why wouldn’t I like it?”

“You didn’t have to do it yourself; I suppose that makes it taste divine,” Billy joked. But he sounded happy, and his face was no longer drawn with tension and worry. Steve felt terrible for making his friend worry over him so much while he was ailing, and he was champing at the bit to get back out in the field to help him with the chores.

Steve washed up, dressed himself in warm, heavy clothing, and straightened up his room, opening the window to let out the stale air. His mood was light and hopeful, and the thought of Bucky arriving shortly made a soft smile pull at his lips. What Steve insisted would be a short ailment kept him bedbound all week. Yet, every time he woke from troubled, feverish dreams, he found Bucky there, changing or retucking his bedding, rubbing kinks out of his back, swabbing him down with witch hazel or the eucalyptus balm he picked up from the apothecary, or walking him downstairs to use the outhouse. Bucky, with his deep, soothing voice and concerned eyes almost never left Steve’s side. Steve hadn’t dreamed that. He chuckled when he thought of the stories that Bucky read to him, realizing that he hadn’t imagined that, either. 

“Perhaps he should have become a physician instead of a manager,” he mused aloud as he finished buttoning his jacket. Steve blushed when he picked through his memories, still blurred from his previous delirium. He remembered the feeling of Bucky’s hands. How strong and warm they felt, and it occurred to him that he’d held onto one at some point, no doubt to keep him from leaving the room too soon. How Bucky had tensed slightly when Steve caught his fingers in his grip and held his palm against his chest, and then relaxed and smiled down at him with something like affection in his large, soft eyes. And Bucky let his palm rest against him, cupping his heartbeat.

“Rest, Stevie,” he told him. “I will be here when you wake. I promise.”

“It’s hard to be here in bed. I hate ailing like this and being useless-”

“Stop that, Steve. You work harder than any man I know. I’m going to grow very stern with you if you call yourself useless in my presence.” Steve stroked Bucky’s captive fingers at this reassurance. Bucky’s smile widened. “And it’s been my pleasure to know you, despite your constant habit of letting me make a fool out of myself at every task I attempt.”

And Steve remembered that, briefly, the feeling of shame that he’d perhaps treated Bucky less than kindly, and allowed Billy to grouse at him more than once. “Perhaps you’re a bit green, Bucky. But, you _try._ And that… goes a long way with me.” Bucky chuckled under his breath and nodded.

“Then, I’m honored.”

“You’re still a brat.”

“Keep calling me a brat, and I will bring you cold soup and cold tea,” Bucky warned, and that made Steve wheeze a rusty laugh until he coughed. Bucky tugged his hand loose and found Steve a handkerchief, and he hacked up more phlegm. He pounded on Steve’s back and rubbed it before he rolled back over to rest. Steve remembered Bucky reading him another story that day. If he didn’t know better - Steve couldn’t trust his mind’s wanderings while his fever dragged on - he could have sworn he felt Bucky smooth his hair, followed by a soft press of lips on his brow.

Of course, Steve had to have imagined it.

The thought still made his cheeks warm all the way up to his ears.

Steve wandered outside and found Billy feeding the fowl, and he decided to collect the eggs while the chickens pecked at the scattered seed. Billy looked pleased that he was up and ready.

“Thought you were at death’s door,” he teased. “Made me worry.”

“Hearing that warms my heart,” Steve joked. He glanced around the yard and at the barn, noticing the work Billy had done during his illness. “Everything looks tip-top. How did you manage all this?”

“Bucky,” he told him simply.

“Bucky helped you put on a new roof?” Steve noticed the shingles. Brand-new and perfectly placed. 

“No. He just hired the ones who did,” Billy told him.

“What?”

“You heard me. He hired a couple of hands and told me not to worry about it. That he could afford it.”

“But, _I_ can’t afford it!” Steve cried.

“He didn’t want _you_ to worry about it, either, Steve.”

“Well, I’ll worry about it if I like!” Steve shot back.

“Steve. Look. I know you’re worried about the cost, and I know we’ve managed fine on our own up until now. But, you were ailing.”

“I’m not now, and the cost of hiring help will cut into our profits!”

“Steve, we finished the harvest. And the planting is done. We will manage. Talk to Bucky about it, since he _is_ your manager. I know I’ve pulled hairs about him coming on, but he helped us this time, and I’m glad of it.”

Steve felt indignant as he went to gather the eggs, but Billy called out to him from the yard.

“He’s been sneaking and buying supplies, too, but you probably knew that.”

“Like what?” Steve felt prickles of aggravation sweep over his flesh.

“Kerosene and some other things. Seed. And he replaced the yoke for the plow. I think he thought you wouldn’t notice.”

“Damn it,” Steve hissed. He resumed checking the nests, filling up his basket with eggs. Why would Bucky do something like that, when he needed to show George Barnes he could turn a profit? Wouldn’t he consider his manager spending money from his own funds dishonest?

It made so little sense. Steve knew Bucky wanted to help him, but what if Barnes saw this as a conflict of interest?

A few minutes later, Steve was still fuming and hot under the collar when he heard the clopping of hooves in the yard, and he watched Bucky ride up on his wagon, dressed warmly for work.  
Steve leaned against the doorway of the barn, arms folded over his chest as Bucky climbed down. He carried two large sacks under his arms toward the house, until Steve called out to him. “Bucky, what are you doing?”

Bucky turned to him and smiled. “Just stowing these inside. We’ll eat well this week, I bought flour and sugar, Stevie…”

“With what funds?” Steve demanded as he pushed away from the frame and stalked across the yard.

“Blast,” Billy muttered. “He’s in for it, now…”

“You don’t have to concern yourself about that, Stevie.”

“I don’t? Don’t I? Bucky, where did you enter this expense onto my ledger?”

Bucky paused at the front steps, furrowing his brow. “It’s only flour and sugar, Stevie. You needed them; your cupboards were looking bare, and I just wanted to help out.”

“So you dug into your pocket money? Bucky, I can’t prove to George Barnes that I can make a profit if his manager is paying for my expenses and isn’t accounting for it!”

“You need money to run your farm, and to keep food on your table, Steve. I saw your ledger, and I looked back on your expenses back when your uncle was still running this farm. He wasted far more money, and there was no way for him to make this farm profit to its full potential. You have his taste for gambling and liquor to thank for that.”

Steve flushed, and Bucky winced at his scowl, but he pressed on.

“Your ledger was bleeding money when I came here, Steve.”

“You’re my farm’s manager, Bucky, not its _investor_. Barnes will see this as a breach of contract.”

“No, he won’t. If I want to buy you sugar and a little flour, then I will. It isn’t up to him how I spend the salary he pays me,” Bucky snapped.

“And what of the men you hired?”

“What of them?”

“That costs far more than sugar and flour.”

“Don’t fret about it.”

“Don’t… don’t _fret_ about it?!”

Steve’s mouth was agape. Bucky shrugged at him and headed for Steve’s pantry to set down the sugar, but Steve blocked his way. “No. Take it back to the shop.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You need supplies and I brought them here!”

“Not when we have to watch every penny. You’re my manager, and you should know this and act like it!”

“Why are you being so stubborn about this? Why won’t you just let me help you, Steve?” Bucky tried to move around him again, but Steve lightly shoved him back.

“Because I don’t need help, Bucky! Stop trying to interfere!”

“So, I should let you starve rather than interfere?”

Steve’s mouth was mulish, and Bucky pushed past him and set the sugar onto the shelf. But when he moved to set the flour beside it, Steve grabbed the ends of the sack, stopping his progress. He tried to tug it from Bucky’s hands. “Don’t. Put it back on the wagon.”

“I’ll do no such thing! I’m putting it where it belongs!”

“It belongs back in the shop!”

“It belongs on your breakfast table!”

Bucky jerked it from Steve’s hands, only to find himself jerked forward as Steve tried to wrest it from him. They scuffled over it, each trying to slap it out of the other’s grasp. 

“Why are you being so stubborn?!”

“Let GO!”

“YOU let go!”

Bucky tried to get purchase on the rough burlap, and his next attempt found him pinching at the edge of the sack where a few rough, burlap threads worked themselves loose.

_POOF!_

Flour flew up from the punctured bag, showering them both in dusty white clouds. Steve and Bucky sputtered and coughed, exchanging annoyed looks.

“Was that _really necessary_ , Steve?”

“I told you to put it back on the wagon.”

“Well, I certainly can’t, now! Damn it, Stevie!”

Bucky knelt down to see how much of the flour he could salvage from the sack. “Bring me the tin.”

Steve, exasperated, glared at Bucky and retreated to the kitchen. He grabbed the flour tin and uncapped it, and then he shoved it at Bucky.

“Take it, then. Do what you want with it.”

“Biscuits would have been nice. Or bread. Or anything else but dumping it all over the pantry. And ourselves.”

“Damn it, Bucky…”

“You could _help?_ ”

“I will,” Steve grumbled. “I am.”

And he did. Steve fetched the broom and dustpan to clean up the spill while Bucky poured as much flour into the mostly empty tin as he could manage, even managing to fill a second, smaller tin with the rest. They were both covered in white dust, hair, skin and clothing dull with it, and Bucky reached out and swiped at Steve’s trousers with his palm, dusting some of it off. “Leave it, Bucky.”

“Fine, then.”

“Good Lord, what did you two do?” Billy didn’t try to hide his snickers. “I came in here, expecting to see you two going at it, and you look like you both lost a fight with the flour sack!”

“He did it,” they said in unison, pointing to each other.

“Eejits,” Billy said. “Here, Steve, I’ll make the day’s bread. Just let me shake it from your shirt…”

Steve advanced on him with the dustpan full of flour, and Billy retreated quickly, darting out into the yard. But Steve finally dumped the wasted flour into the compost, while Billy chortled at him and went back to feeding the flock.

“Are you really angry at me just for buying some supplies?” Bucky asked calmly.

Steve sighed and turned to face him. His expression was long-suffering but slightly contrite.

“Perhaps you should have asked me before you just spent the money.”

“It was _my_ money to spend. I know you can manage on your own, but there’s no need for you to struggle if I’m here to help. You never should have had to do all of this yourself in the first place. Your uncle should have protected your inheritance. He was entrusted with it.”

Steve looked frustrated, and he turned away from Bucky then. Bucky watched him tug on the back of his hair, posture stiff and uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry. I spoke out of turn.”

“Yet, you didn’t lie.”

Steve went back out into the yard. Bucky decided to go into the barn and stack hay bales in the loft. He climbed the ladder and restacked the bales that were up there, making room for more. He climbed down and brought up the first few bales without difficulty.

“What are you doing?” Steve demanded.

“Stacking the hay,” Bucky told him.

“You don’t have to do that, you can go back into the house and balance the books.”

“I know I can, Steve, but I want to help. You shouldn’t have to do everything the first day that you’re feeling well.”

Steve huffed. “Please tell me you’re not angry about the flour.”

“Why would I be angry about the flour?”

Bucky’s voice was collected and smooth, but Steve heard its edge and smothered a brittle laugh.

“You were trying to help me. I know I didn’t express my gratitude properly, Bucky, and I apologize.”

Bucky paused dramatically and stared down at Steve from over the edge of the loft. “Did my ears just hear an apology from one Steven Rogers? Has the sky begun raining down gold coins? I never thought I would live to experience this miracle!”

Steve’s lips twisted. Bucky went back to the bales, but when he moved the next one, he heard a strange, twittering series of squeaks and saw something large, gray and furry go scrabbling through the loose straw.

“GAH! RAT! RODENT! Damn it!” Bucky yelped and stumbled backward, completely missing the edge of the ladder, and he tumbled over the edge of the loft.

“BUCKY!” Steve’s feet moved in a flash, before he could reason with himself over his response to seeing Bucky fall, and he darted out, arms outstretched, heart racing and heedless of the potential harm of-

Steve bit his tongue with the impact as the two of them were knocked backwards onto the hay-scattered ground. Steve groaned, body smarting from his landing, and Bucky was still limp and stunned, lying back against him, and Steve patted him reflexively. Bucky wriggled around until he faced him, and his face broke into a helpless smile. He snickered before asking, “Heavens, Stevie, are you all right?”

“I’m questioning my decision to rise from bed this morning, right now. Perhaps it hasn’t been ideal…”

“I’m all right now, too. Thank you for asking. My pride is more wounded than anything else.”

“You saw a rat?”

“It was enormous, and I never knew they grew that large.”

“I’ll set out some poison,” Steve promised as they lay there, just staring at each other. “Did it frighten you that much?”

“It startled me,” Bucky admitted. “And it was quite disgusting.”

“You’ve lived a pampered life if you’ve never seen one up until now.”

“Never up so close,” Bucky clarified. “What’s wrong?” he asked as Steve gently probed his lip.

“Bit the inside of my lip. The back of your head struck me in the mouth. Made me see stars for a moment.”

His lip was slightly puffy. Rosy. Bucky leaned up on one elbow and gently tilted Steve’s face to better see the wound. Steve’s eyes flitted over Bucky’s face in surprise at the gentle, insistent touch, and he was suddenly conscious of how close Bucky was, with the entire length of his body pressed against his. He touched Steve’s lip, turning the edge of it out to examine the tiny cut. “I’m sorry. The first thing I did once you were back out of bed was knock you silly, and I didn’t mean to, Steve.”

Steve reached for Bucky’s hand, a gesture that felt like he was dreaming it, echoing the times when he was feverish and when Bucky had touched him. Bucky shivered at the sensation of Steve’s warm, calloused fingers closing around his wrist and caressing his pulse. Bucky’s breath caught, and his eyes dilated.

“This isn’t the first time you’ve knocked me silly, Bucky.” Steve’s smile was lopsided and smug, and he watched Bucky’s expression shift from surprise to one of delight.

“It still looks like it hurts, Stevie.”

“Just a little.”

“May I make it better?”

Steve’s eyes crinkled with humor, and he nodded enthusiastically, giving Bucky permission. The hand that Steve still clasped flattened against Steve’s chest, splaying against his solid warmth, and Bucky leaned down slowly, eagerly, and brushed his lips against Steve’s in a tentative, sweet caress that made their hearts pound. He heard Steve’s breath hitch, before he hummed in pleasure, and Bucky kissed him again, chasing that sound. Craving it. 

Steve’s arm coiled around Bucky’s waist and pulled him over, rolling him atop Steve’s body. Bucky moaned at the change in position and how much of Steve it allowed him to feel at once. He cradled Steve’s jaw in his palm and kissed him again, feeling Steve open for him. Bucky sucked lightly (so gently) on Steve’s lower lip, urging him to give him better access, and his tongue swept inside Steve’s mouth, tasting his slick heat. Steve’s hand ran down the length of Bucky’s back until it found his rump, and he squeezed its supple, firm curve greedily, making Bucky smile against his lips.

“Your hands have wandered a bit.”

“Do you want them to stop?” There was mischief in Steve’s pearly blue eyes. 

“Not in the least.”

“Good, this is good…” 

Bucky nodded at him and resumed kissing him, and he felt Steve arch up against him. He lay caged in Bucky’s arms, and Bucky’s hips thrust down against him, searching out Steve’s heat. Passion licked over Bucky’s nerve endings as he became aware of Steve, listening to his breathing, drawing in his masculine scent, absorbing the heat of his body. Bucky’s fingers groomed out bits of hay from Steve’s hair - honestly, the two of them were a mess by now, between the flour incident in the kitchen and now rolling about in the dirt - and they kissed hungrily, as though the chance to would be stolen from them any moment.

Billy’s voice in the doorway broke the spell.

“So, I suppose you two aren’t arguing anymore?”

Bucky hissed in alarm and rolled off of Steve in an instant, shocked out of his passionate stupor. Kissing Steve had robbed him of all reason, and he heard Steve’s smothered curse as they both struggled to their feet and brushed off bits of hay and debris from their clothing. Bucky glanced up and found Billy smirking at the two of them, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing to argue about, and there’s work to do,” Steve told him simply as he went to the tools hanging along the wall and handed Bucky the pitchfork. “Bucky was just about to muck out the stalls.”

“But… I _wasn’t._ ”

“I think you were.” Steve bit the edge of his lip in amusement, and Bucky huffed in annoyance as he took the pitchfork. “I’m going to set out poison. We have rats.”

“And other unwelcome intruders,” Bucky grumbled as he went into the stall.

*

They went about their chores and managed to sit down for tea just before noon. Bucky wondered to himself why the food tasted better that day and how he could eat with such a hearty appetite. Steve watched him eat the thick slice of bread spread with butter and jam, forgetting his usual table manners as he licked his fingers instead of using his napkin. Steve’s eyes tracked the movement, intrigued by Bucky’s mouth, but he forced his attention back to his own plate. Bucky noticed and failed to hide his own smile.

*

Bucky finally worked on the ledger and went over it with Steve, reconciling it against their remaining expenses.

“If we manage to sell the pickles and eggs at the market, you’ll have more than enough to buy grain.”

“Don’t you think for a second that you’re buying it for me,” Steve warned.

“I’m your manager, not your investor,” Bucky agreed, before rolling his eyes.

Steve tsked under his breath and shook his head, but he smirked. 

“But, I want to go to the market with you.”

Steve nodded, smiling genuinely this time.

They finished discussing the expenses much later, and Bucky put Steve’s mind at ease that he wouldn’t take the funds he used to pay Scott and Hank out of his profits for the month. 

“I only wanted to help you to stay afloat. I didn’t mean to take liberties or overstep, Steve.”

“The next time you wish to take liberties, please limit it to bringing me tea. Or reading me stories.” Steve rose from the desk and offered Bucky a parting shot. “Or removing my shirt…”

Bucky flushed a deep, hot scarlet. Oh, how his hands remembered Steve without his shirt.

Steve went out into the yard, while Bucky headed for the barn to look for more canning jars. He found them in the corner and brought out two crates full, wondering if it would be enough to finish the pickling. 

He heard hoofbeats coming up the drive and wondered who was visiting in the middle of the afternoon. But when he heard Steve’s joyous shout, it pricked his interest, and he peered out through the barn window.

He saw the pastor’s handsome son, Samuel Wilson, and Bucky felt his heart flip in alarm. _Sam._

That smile. That friendly, easy manner. He was still very much a man who was comfortable in his skin, and in any situation. Charming. Kind. Skilled at smoothing things over, from what Bucky remembered.

Including his aborted wedding. To Steve Rogers.

Bucky felt a frisson of envy when Steve and Sam embraced. It was brotherly and familiar, but it was too soon after he’d felt Steve against him - _under him_ \- and Bucky felt greedy for more of the intimate contact. The last time Sam spoke to Bucky, he delivered the grim news that his groom deserted him, sight unseen, and broke the engagement. Bucky remembered the stinging heat of his own tears and Sam’s hollow, well-intended apology. It still stung, even after the past few months. But Bucky was still just as determined to know Steve, his one-time groom, even though Steve was only acquainting himself with the side of him that Bucky wanted him to know. Bucky knew he held an unfair advantage in that regard. 

But Sam’s appearance posed difficulties that threatened his efforts like water did a paper boat.

Bucky ducked back into the barn and watched them from the window, heart hammering in his chest. “Blast it all,” he muttered.

Steve held onto Sam, beaming and looking him over. “Aren’t you a pretty picture. You never have to put on airs to come and visit me, Sam.”

“This effort is my bare minimum, Steve. I hardly ‘put on airs.’ All I did was _bathe._ ” Sam clapped Steve’s shoulder fondly. “You should try it, sometime…”

“You wound me…”

Sam pinched the end of Steve’s collar and made a face at the sorry state of his shirt. “And I tried to send you out the door in Sunday finery. How foolish of me.”

“Your expectations, as ever, were far too high.”

“I was hopeful.” And Sam gave him a soft smile. “You’ll never make me stop hoping for the best for you, Steve.”

They released each other reluctantly, and Bucky noticed the way their contact lingered, stoking his envy. And they were merely _friends?_

“You look a bit peaked,” Sam remarked.

“None the worse for wear, considering,” Steve admitted. “I wasn’t well. I took to my bed, albeit unwillingly.”

“Who held you down? Billy?” Sam’s eyes roved over the field and herds. “Nothing else is the worse for wear, from what I can tell. DId someone help you?”

“My farm’s manager. The one that George Barnes sent here. I had some misgivings, but… I’ve grown accustomed to having him come around.”

Sam’s brows drew together. “Manager?”

“Yes. Bucky. Bucky Barton. He’s Clint’s cousin.”

“I didn’t think Clint had any family living nearby. None whom I’ve ever met, certainly?”

“He went away to university.”

“ _Clint_ has a cousin who attended university?!” Sam was agog.

“Believe me, we were all a bit surprised.”

“A _bit_?!”

“Sam. Stop that.”

“Apologies. Steve. This is just so… unlikely.”

“Give both Bartons their due. Bucky has quite the head for numbers, and… well. He’s a quick study, even if things didn’t start auspiciously.”

Sam smirked, and the expression made his dark eyes twinkle in a way that was typical of whenever they visited together. “Not auspicious? Dare I ask…?”

“Milked Bertie on the wrong side. She set him straight.”

“With her good foot!” Sam slapped his knees, crowing with laughter. “Oh, the things I miss when I stay away for too long!”

Steve chuckled and nodded as he led Sam toward the kitchen door. “Speaking of Bucky, where is he?”

“He’s here today?” Sam glanced around. “I saw Billy in the orchard when I rode up the lane. Just him.”

“No, Bucky is here,” Steve insisted. “BUCKY!” he called out. “Come and meet my friend Sam!”

Bucky growled under his breath and steeled himself, schooling the panic out of his face. He counted silently to three and emerged from the barn, carrying the box of jars. Steve smiled at him and waved him over impatiently, while Sam’s smile froze ominously, before faltering.

“Bucky…?” Bucky saw Sam murmur his name incredulously, but Bucky just gave him his brightest smile and continued across the yard. 

“He’s the only man I know who spends just as much time at his tailor’s as you do, Sam. Pretty or not, he still works hard,” Steve teased.

“You go by Bucky-”

“Bucky Barton,” Bucky told him easily, balancing the jars on one hip as he reached out to shake Sam’s hand a little too firmly. “Clint’s cousin.”

“We’ve met before-”

“We couldn’t have. Perhaps you’ve just seen me about town.”

“Per...haps?”

Sam quirked one brow and he cocked his head slightly as he worked through the information, taking in Bucky’s simple clothing and the hint of stubble on his jaw. Feeling the slight calluses on Bucky’s palms, acquired through honest work. 

“Maybe you’ve seen him at the market, Sam. Bucky helps us every once in a while. That face and charm of his sells us a lot of eggs and cheese.”

“I bet it does,” Sam agreed. “So. _Barton._ Clint never mentioned a cousin. We all grew up together, and Clint and his brother, Bernard, were friends of ours in primary.”

For just a moment, Bucky felt a memory float down into his consciousness, making tiny ripples. Sam. Younger. Dimples. A gap in his teeth that he never outgrew. He and Steve shared a seat at the desk in the front of the school room, and he stood up for Steve during scuffles in the yard. But Bucky didn’t have the luxury of pondering the first time that he met Samuel Thomas Wilson, not when he had to convince him - or Steve - that they had never met until _now_.

“My parents moved us - er, my family left town when I was young.”

“Bucky talks about his sister Becca all the time. Honestly, I’ve never met her, and I feel like I know her, already!”

Sam’s brows shot up into his hairline. Bucky’s stomach twisted itself up in knots and he began to sweat, but he recovered quickly.

“Steve, let me put these jars inside. We can finish the pickling!”

“It’s a fine time to finish it, we’ve so much dill, now. Mind that you don’t add sugar to the brine this time instead of salt. We’re not making jam today-”

“Good God, Stevie, will you _please_ let that go?!”

“Never.”

“He’s insufferable,” Bucky told Sam, who nodded in full agreement.

“You, sir, have a gift for understatement.”

“And irritation. Let’s not leave that gift out,” Steve countered.

Steve ushered Sam inside and sat him down, and the three men began to prepare the vegetables for pickling. Sam removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, displaying a true gift for knife work as they sliced and chopped. Steve rambled on about their progress on the farm since Bucky arrived.

“Bucky nearly fell off the roof a few weeks ago, and today, he tripped backwards out of the loft.”

“Steve made an excellent cushion.”

Sam snickered, shaking his head. “That explains that fat lip of yours, Steve.”

Steve blushed, while Bucky glanced away, but Sam caught his smile, filing it away for future knowledge.

_Interesting._

“My father would call me remiss if I didn’t ask why I’ve never seen you at Sunday services.”

Bucky realized Sam was talking to _him_ and struggled for a feasible response. “Er. I belong to a different… parish.”

“Our chapel is quite lovely. My father prides himself on delivering our Lord’s message with the utmost gravity and enthusiasm.”

“I’m sure he gives a rousing sermon,” Bucky agreed.

“You should attend it sometime,” Sam urged.

“Sam,” Steve said, huffing slightly. “Bucky may have his reasons for not attending in our parish.”

“I would love to hear them. Perhaps I can persuade him to reconsider. I’m sure many of your acquaintances attend our services? Certainly, you must know some of them. Like, the Rasputin family, for instance? Or the Howletts? The Guthries?”

“I know them from the farms that we- er, I mean, that my employer oversees.”

“Or perhaps the _Barneses_?”

Sam gave the name telling weight, and Bucky flushed, feeling his skin explode in hot prickles. Sam Wilson was proving to be either oblivious to Bucky’s discomfiture, or the man was simply an outright _nuisance_.

“Or the Romanovs,” Steve interjected, cutting neatly through the tension in the room. This time, Sam’s face went on a journey. “One Romanov in particular.”

“Miss Romanov?” Bucky pounced on the familiar name. “Extravagant auburn hair? Petite? Owns a wit most droll?”

“ _Most_ droll.” Steve grinned. “She fair skewered Clint the other day.”

“It’s not hard,” Sam said, shrugging, but he felt as though he missed a worthy moment. _Every_ moment in Natasha’s presence was worth capturing. And savoring. “But, I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Bucky, I need to step out for a moment,” Steve told them as he got up from the table. “Can you please fetch the salt?”

“You mean, the sugar?” Bucky teased, winking at him.

Steve rolled his eyes and clapped his shoulder fondly. His touch lingered before he walked out into the yard.

Sam and Bucky stared at each other across the table for a long moment. Bucky rose and went into the pantry.

“So. You’re managing the farm?”

“This one. And a handful of others.”

“Do you spend much time on this one, supervising?”

Bucky snorted as he left the pantry with the sack of salt tucked under his arm. “Supervise? I stand as a target for Billy’s barbs more often than I do anything else, if I’m being-”

“James.”

“- honest.”

Sam’s voice was ominously soft. Bucky’s heart started pounding again, and he gripped the salt tightly.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this, but I’m inclined to tell you that it’s a _terrible_ idea. I’ve known Steven Rogers for years, Bucky… or _James_ , or whoever you are, and if there’s one thing that Steve despises, it’s a liar.”

“I know Steve has the strongest character. I envy that about him. I respect him.”

“Then, why lie?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

They both snuck looks as Steve crossed the field and walked into the outhouse, closing the door after himself. Billy called out to him, “Sitting down on the job again, Rogers? Get back to work!” as he put away the pruning shears. 

“No. _Steve_ won’t understand this.” Sam shook his head. “He truly doesn’t know?”

“That my father is the one who holds the deed to his farm?” 

The words released some of the tension that Bucky had been carrying for weeks.

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Then that makes this charade of yours all the more questionable. And less than ideal.”

“Sam. Please.”

“Explain this to me.”

“Briefly. Because, Sam, I swear to you, I don’t know what I’ll do if he finds out, but I’m a very desperate man, with very few options.”

Sam huffed, then nodded. “All right.”

“You were there. When he abandoned me.”

Sam’s eyes slid away for a moment, and then he sighed. He watched Bucky with renewed sympathy. “Yes, I remember. I watched your heart break.”

“Yes, you did. I’m not so proud that I can’t admit that. Our engagement was fast. Too fast. My parents arranged it as part of my father’s acquisition of the farm. You know him well enough by word of mouth.”

“Our parents are friends, yes. They regularly attend services,” Sam said. “And I noticed you missing from the pew.”

“Of course you did. And you can well imagine why.”

“I can now.”

“I wanted to know him. I wanted to meet him. We never managed a formal meeting, and he refused an engagement banquet.” Bucky laughed bitterly. “He seemed to want to get it all over with quickly. And, well. I admit, I wanted things. I had expectations. Father wanted to move me out of the house, so that my sister could enjoy her Season uninterrupted and to make more room for guests when he threw her a ball. I had just returned home from Pembroke. So, how better to kill two birds with one stone, than to marry his oldest son off to the man whose farm he let the bank foreclose on when his uncle gambled it away, so he could install that son as manager?”

Sam paled, and he leaned back in his chair. “Good Lord…”

“I know it sounds horrid.”

“It’s _unthinkable._ ”

“Sam, I was _desperate_. Just… you don’t understand.” Bucky’s eyes sparked, and he saw Steve coming back toward the house, stopping to wash his hands at the water pump. “You _need_ to understand. I needed to know him. I needed to know how he could leave me at the altar. I needed to know his character, because until then, I would know no peace. I prepared myself to marry him. My parents enjoy a joyous marriage, and I don’t fear the prospect of it. Far from it. If I could know him, work with him, learn how he thinks and feels, and find even the _slightest_ proof that we wouldn’t suit, then I could rest assured that he was right to leave me at the altar. Even though it tore my soul to pieces.” Bucky’s voice was watery and grave, and he realized that tears threatened to spill down his cheeks. He dashed them away quickly with the edge of his sleeve.

“James,” Sam said softly. “Damn it. How could you… why do this? Why bring this down upon yourself?”

“I had to know, or else I would never rest.”

“And what have you learned, with this subterfuge?”

“That we would suit perfectly, if only he would see it.” Bucky stared down at the floor and clenched his fist. “If only he would see _me_.”

“There’s more to this that you aren’t telling me.”

“There’s nothing else to tell.”

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“Believe what you want.” Bucky glanced at Steve one more time as he approached. “But, please. Remain silent about this. You could cost me _everything,_ Sam.”

Sam frowned, but his smile returned as soon as Steve stepped over the threshold moments later. He took the sack from Bucky without asking and set it on the table, opened it, and reached in to taste its contents.

“Salt. All right. Now, we won’t ruin the pickles.”

Bucky laughed, but it was a hollow sound. 

But the rest of the afternoon moved along smoothly until the sun set through the trees. By the time they finished, Bucky’s shoulders ached and the kitchen reeked of brine and dill, but they had several cooling, finished jars to show for their troubles. Bucky started carrying them outside, and Steve began to follow him, but Sam held him back. 

“Let me do that. You’re still in fragile condition,” Sam kidded as he took the box of jars from him and shooed him into his seat.

“You’re hardly back from death’s door,” Bucky agreed. “Sit down, Stevie.”

Steve made a disgusted noise, but he groaned in relief at getting off of his feet.

Sam and Bucky took the pickles out to the barn and stored them off to the side of the loft, where the sun wouldn’t reach. 

“I won’t tell him, because it’s not my place.”

“It’s really not.”

“But I won’t lie for you. That’s on _your_ conscience.”

“I understand that he’s your friend. I know you are questioning my character.”

“No. Not yours. Your father’s, for the choice he made to arrange such an engagement.”

“He cares about money.”

“So do men who don’t lack it.” Sam reached for Bucky’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You’re on the road to heartbreak. But, so help me, James, don’t break _Steve_ heart in your zeal to find rest and to ‘know him.’”

Bucky shook his head. “I swear, Sam, that if the truth hurts Steve, I will leave him alone. I won’t darken his doorstep again. But, if he feels the way that I do, and if he decides that we stand a chance to be truly happy together, nothing will keep me from his side. Not my father. And certainly not _you_.”

Sam grunted in surprise, and then he gave Bucky a lopsided smile. “So. That’s how it is.”

“Good night, Sam.”


End file.
